A New Beginning
by Spyrella
Summary: AU 7 year old Harry has to face another school year, but with Dudley and his cronies seemingly around every corner at school, and his home-life leaving much to be desired, how will he find his way through? Can his new teacher really make the difference?
1. Unease

"You'll be fine, dear."

The young man turned towards the doorway and smiled faintly. It was his first day of teaching, and he would only admit to himself that he felt a faint tingle of nerves. The head teacher smiled fondly towards him, and pressed a cup of tea into his hands.

"You worry too much, Simon," she said confidently. "After today, you'll wonder why you were so anxious in the first place."

Simon frowned, looking slightly put out with his new employer. "I'm not anxious, merely slightly unsure as to how the day will progress." He took a long sip of his tea and gazed through the staffroom window at the hundreds of children milling around and waving goodbye to their families on the third of September. He could only hope to do well by them.

The screaming and shouting from outside already seemed too loud to him, and his forehead creased with worry. He scanned the playground idly, and a pair of eyes looked back. A small boy, who looked a little too young to be in his own class, gave him a fleeting smile before vanishing into the throng.

"You've got today all planned out then?" the head teacher asked, a faint smile touching her lips.

"Of course!" Simon answered a little more indignantly than he'd intended. He had the grace to look perhaps slightly embarrassed for himself, and when he turned back to his companion, one of her eyebrows was raised questioningly. "I'm sorry, Ruth, perhaps I am slightly apprehensive."

She laughed a bright, tinkling laugh that warmed the place instantly, and from behind one of the cupboard doors, a young man squeezed out. "Two minutes and thirty-five seconds!" he announced cheerfully. "That means that the winner is…" he glanced down at the clipboard he held in his hands momentarily "Jackie!" He glanced up to Ruth, a slightly edgy smile on his face.

Dennis Partridge, Simon's memory reminded him, was as nervous as he was scruffy. Though Simon had met him but a few times, he had frequently observed him tucking his shirt back into a pair of overlarge trousers, or attempting to hastily remove a stain on his shirt without being observed. As one of the few men in the school, Simon had already tried to speak to him a few times, though as the school's deputy, he was often unavailable. Ruth had him running all kinds of errands when she was indisposed.

"What's going on…?" Simon asked, looking from one bright unapologetic smile to the nervous and fearful expression on the other. "What's two minutes thirty-five?"

"The time it took you to admit to being nervous about your first day teaching," Ruth explained, patting him on the back. "You lasted longer than I gave you credit for."

"Two minutes thirty-five," Simon repeated faintly, "Let me see that list!" He made a grab for Dennis, who pulled away sharply.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Mr Glass, sir!" Dennis yelped, and swiftly placed one of the chairs present between himself and his attacker. The room was filled with assorted seating of all sizes, shapes and colours. They all matched in the level of comfort however; most staff could be heard to complain that they would be better off sitting on the floor.

"Mr Glass?" Simon laughed, the pool on his nervousness forgotten momentarily. Dennis seemed to remember with whom he was speaking then and snorted faintly, shaking his head at himself. He tossed the list onto the coffee table and made to leave.

"You'd better get used to it," he said to Simon, stopping briefly in the doorway, "you're a teacher now."

"Incidentally, don't you have a class to teach?" Ruth asked sweetly, enjoying the look on her latest teacher's face as it turned whiter by the moment. She had been unaware that Simon could run so fast, as he raced past her and Dennis down the corridor towards his classroom.

"No running in the hallways, Mr Glass!"

* * *

Simon only felt relaxed when the chaos of the new class had died down, and they were all seated before him at one of six different tables. He had called the register to find none absent, and decided to take it as a good sign. Now that he was here, he found himself unable to recall why he had been so ill at ease that morning, when twenty-five cheerful seven year-olds gazed up at him in expectation.

He had acknowledged the young boy he had seen so momentarily outside with a slight smile, and a feeling of surprise; Harry barely looked old enough to be in the first class with the five year-olds, let alone his, but he had settled down quietly and quickly enough, not pausing to speak to any of the other children as his classmates had done. In Simon's eyes, he seemed slightly older than the rest.

"Good morning, class," he said brightly, moving with confidence to the front of the room. "I am Mr Glass, and for this year, I shall be your teacher."

Silence fell in the room, and under his influence, the first morning's class went almost without conflict at all. Already, he found himself trying to take stock of all the children, and had a seating plan set out for them to take after dinner that would see them through the year. A quick glance around the room, and he tried to assess which children were going to cause trouble, who would need a little more help, and who could stand more easily alone. The bell rang for dinner, and his class left the room for the main hall with whoops and calls to each other; Simon shook his head, trying to dispel the first impressions he had made. They were almost never right in his experience. He closed the classroom door behind him and headed off to the staffroom.

A woman perhaps slightly older than him flashed him a bright smile when he opened the door. "Thanks, Simon!" Jackie said with a smirk, flashing a twenty pound note before it disappeared into her purse. He frowned half-heartedly in the face of the staff around him, and took a place by Jackie's side. Simon had met Jackie twice before; she was the school's secretary, and seemed to spend her entire day on the phone arguing or drafting letters to the school on Ruth's behalf.

Someone snorted to his left. "That's the last time I have faith in the courage of men," Stephen muttered, grabbing a mug from behind him, "I bet that you wouldn't admit to your nerves at all. You new teachers are all as weak as each other…" Stephen Montgomery was how Simon envisaged himself in ten years' time: cheerful, at ease, and well experienced at teaching.

"Yeah, like you were never a new teacher, scared out of his wits by a group of children!" someone laughed from across the room.

Simon took a deep breath and smiled nervously at Jackie. "So how's it going, honestly?" she asked, with an expression that said she was ready to hear whatever news he had, be it good or bad.

He ran a hand through his hair in an unconscious motion he'd picked up some ten years or so ago, back when he was an unruly kid in his mid-teens, rebelling against everything he could. "Well, it's not so bad. We've not done much really, I've just been trying to get to know the kids a little."

"Any favourites so far…?" Jackie asked bravely, and Simon could tell that a few ears around him had perked up to hear who he had already picked out as the favoured.

"Well, it's a little early to be singling kids out, don't you think?" Simon hedged, and Stephen snorted with laughter.

"Come on, who do you think will be the first kid this year whose parents you're going to have to meet over misbehaviour?" Stephen asked, coming to sit down on the coffee table. Ruth clucked at his misuse of the furniture, and from behind her, Dennis pulled out another clipboard, seemingly from nowhere.

A hand ran through messy hair again. "I don't know, maybe Piers? I think his name's Piers," Simon finally sighed, thinking of the most troublesome-looking child who had been in his classroom that morning.

"Ooh, it's good but it's not right!" Stephen smiled brightly. Jackie rolled her eyes, and Simon felt that he was on the outside of the joke.

"Thanks, Roy," a woman muttered darkly from the other side of the room. Simon glanced at her, and a pair of amused eyes stared back, contrasting against her deliberately bored expression.

"Yeah, he definitely won't be the one to cause you the most trouble this year," Jackie said with a quick smile at Dennis. She looked to Simon to explain, "Dennis taught your class last year—"

"—and thankfully, with any luck, I won't have to educate another child again," Dennis added, wringing his hands slightly, and then adding in a low tone that Simon was sure he was not meant to hear, "not after last year anyway."

"I'm not entirely sure I know who Piers is," Ruth said, seizing another biscuit from the counter, and refilling her mug of coffee.

"The one that looks like a rat," the woman with the laughing eyes said with a faint sneer from across the room, and Stephen laughed heartily. Simon tried in vain to prevent a smile from appearing on his face, but it did no good, and even Ruth could not repress a snigger.

"Don't mind Margaret," Ruth said with a cursory glance at her colleague, "she's not exactly known for curbing her tongue."

"Even around the children," Stephen muttered, and Margaret flashed him a half smile. Simon settled back into his chair and smiled faintly around the room. This kind of warm camaraderie was not previously known to him; he had always felt like somewhat of an outsider, and he found it was nice just to relax and feel like he fit into something somewhere.

"So don't think you were getting off that easily," Margaret spoke up again. "You think that Piers is going to cause you the most trouble this year?"

Simon nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, it's just a feeling I'm getting from him."

"Anyone else caught your attention?" Stephen asked, grinning brightly, and eagerly awaiting any dirt on the children he could get. He would teach Simon's class in the following year, and any knowledge of them he could acquire now was certainly not a bad thing.

Simon hesitated, and they all sensed it. "There was just one other that stands out slightly," he said quietly. "He just seems very quiet, and more… I don't know… solitary than the rest."

He was used to being around people who gave nothing away of themselves. He had practically grown up amongst it, in some ways, and so Simon did not miss the slight reactions the other staff gave to his statement.

"Yeah, Harry can be very solitary," Jackie said quietly, and Simon looked at her sharply. He had not realised that it would have been clear which particular pupil he had been talking about, but clearly young Harry had garnered the attention of the rest of the staff for whatever reason over the past two years in which he had been at the school.

He looked about him, and tried to read the expressions on the faces of the other staff members. Margaret turned from them sharply, and stalked back to her classroom at the other end of the school. He had not been able to glean anything useful pertaining to what they knew of Harry, or why he was of such particular notice to the staff. Even Ruth, who had not recognised Piers, except by crude description, had known instantly of whom he spoke this time. He felt a vague feeling of unease sink into his stomach, and he wondered if he had been mistaken; perhaps Harry would be the one to cause him the most trouble that year after all.

Jackie patted his arm with a slight awkwardness to it, and gave him what could almost have been a sympathetic smile, though whether it was to do with not quite understanding what was going on, or whether it was to do with having to have Harry in his class was unknown to him.

"So, who do you think will be causing you the most trouble this year, Steve?" Dennis asked bravely, to which Stephen rolled his eyes and threw himself back dramatically onto the chairs behind him.

"Each and every one of them," he moaned. "I'm absolutely certain of it, Dennis!"

"Well, I can't exactly write that down to bet on, can I?"

* * *

"Alright now, class," Simon said loudly when he re-entered the classroom, allowing the children back in from their morning break. "I want you all to line up along the side of the classroom there, and I'm going to alter the seating arrangements just a little."

That morning, he had allowed the children to sit with their friends momentarily, just to help set them at ease on that first morning back after their long summer, but he wasn't going to let it stay like that forever. Dennis had kindly provided him with a quick run through of each child's general ability level before term had begun, which meant that Simon could seat the children in this manner. He intended to set the brighter children slightly more challenging work, and give the struggling children a little more attention. And if they all happened to be sitting in those groups, the less work it would make for him.

"All right then," Simon said with a bright smile, "Dudley, you're going to be sitting here. Harry, you opposite him, thank you. Hannah, I'd like you over on this table please…"

The children looked up at him expectantly when he had finished, and Simon smiled faintly. "I thought you might like to get to know some new people, so I've mixed you up a little, and now I want you to draw a mascot for your table. An animal of some kind that will represent you for the whole year. There are lots of pencils and paper on your tables, and I'll be coming around to see how you're getting on."

Harry let himself get caught up in his picture, carefully drawing the outline he remembered vaguely from memory. He didn't pay any attention to Dudley, who had unfortunately been seated next to him. He didn't think about how awful the year was going to go when it was clear that Dudley was not going to make things easy for him. He just concentrated on his picture.

"That's a lovely lion, Harry," Simon said, smiling brightly. To be truthful, he had been a little disappointed to find Harry sitting with the lowest ability group in his class. He had, of course, sat him there himself, but when he saw the truth in fact, he felt strangely deflated. It was odd, having only met the children a couple of hours ago, that he had wanted Harry to be one of the brightest students, but it was clearly not the case. It was no good to begin his first day with unreasonable favouritism however, and tried to squash all thoughts of praising Harry's lion too highly. It was a lovely picture though, and Simon couldn't help but notice how he'd added slight streaks of orange and red into a yellowy mane for shading and highlights.

"Look at my horse," Dudley demanded from the side of him, and Simon glanced down at it. It showed some effort, if nothing else.

"Please look at my horse, Mr Glass," Simon corrected mildly, and moved along. Behind him, he thought he heard Dudley telling someone off for something, but when he turned around, all he saw was Dudley fiercely colouring in his horse, and Harry trying to give his lion a shadow with a more subdued expression than before.

* * *

The bell rang through the school at three in the afternoon, and the children grinned brightly at the prospect of going home; Simon himself breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"All right then, off you go!" The class whooped and cheered, and ran through the back door of the classroom and out into the playground within moments. He did not watch them leave, but after a few moments, he got to his feet and wandered over to the door to greet the parents of his new class.

"Wonderful to meet you, Mr Glass, I'm Jane's mother, I hope the day has gone well for you…" He allowed himself to smile at the woman and to listen to her talking about the merits of her daughter for a full five minutes before another woman latched onto him with what seemed like much the same directive.

Nearly half an hour later, Simon walked through the corridors, heading towards the staffroom, and feeling ready to pull his hair out of his head. A few people were there, mostly getting their things together, and it was clear that some had already left.

"Thought you'd never make it," Jackie said to him, slipping her jacket on over her shoulders, and wrapping it more closely around her for warmth.

"I got caught by a group of mothers," Simon admitted.

"Rookie mistake!" Stephen informed him loudly, sweeping past him and reaching for his briefcase he'd left on the floor earlier that afternoon. "Rule one of teaching: never ever speak to any parents for the first week, all you'll hear is 'My Jack's so great... he's just misunderstood!' The second rule is to look like someone's really angered you the rest of the time, so that none of them dare approach you. Works like a charm!"

He grabbed his case, and swung his jacket over one shoulder and left with a hastily called 'Until tomorrow!' over the other.

Ruth gave Simon a warm smile when he left, and he left feeling a little lighter. He felt like it really was going to be okay teaching, he just hoped that he could instil some wisdom into those small heads in his classroom every day.

It was breezy outside when he got into his car, and turned the heater on. It was already chilly in early September, and the sky was threatening rain. 'No surprises there,' he thought to himself sullenly as he reversed out of the car park. The drive back home was quite short, passing along streets lined with children from the school and their parents. Glancing to the left, he glimpsed a single dark-haired boy on his own, with his shoulders hunched down. The strange feeling of unease he had experienced earlier that day was back, and he fought to squash it down and ignore it all the way home.


	2. Unbearable Kindness

Chapter Two

"Oh my sweet duddykins!" Aunt Petunia had squealed in the playground, wrapping Dudley up in her arms. "How was your first day back? Tell me all about it!"

They had walked away swiftly, making it clear to the small boy behind them that his presence was not wanted. Harry watched Dudley and Aunt Petunia drive away from what had become her spot in the car park. Aunt Petunia had taken to arriving at the school nearly a full hour before the day ended, in order that she might have the first spot. It was obscene that her poor Dudley should have to walk further than ten metres at the end of a long school day.

Harry glanced at the sky, and began to walk a little more quickly when he saw that the clouds had darkened since dinner. The others in the playground allowed him to pass unheeded; there was no danger to him once Dudley had left, and people were dispersing quite quickly now. He turned to look at the school, and gave Ms Roberts a smile and a wave. The school's secretary had always had a warm smile for him for as long as he could remember. Sometimes, when Dudley's gang was being particularly nasty to him, she had asked for his help reorganising the library during lunchtime, and he had appreciated her efforts to keep him from harm.

He knew the route home well by now, having often been left to his own devices after school. It was mostly down hill, and when the weather was nice, he would dawdle more than was necessary in order to enjoy the outdoors. The time he had to himself to do with as he wished was the rarest pleasure Harry had.

Wary glances and muffled laughter greeted Harry when he stepped onto Privet Drive, but he had long since grown used to the mockery and suspicion directed his way from the other residents in the street and their children. He strongly suspected that during the day, his aunt cultivated his reputation for mischief, and he wasn't too far wrong. The other children avoided Harry, having been told to do so by their parents, keen to keep his unsavoury influence well away from their own. Not that it made much difference to him – he was rarely allowed into the street to do as he wished. More often than not, he was just passing through, either coming or going to school, or running to the local shops.

"Where on earth have you been?" snapped Aunt Petunia when he stepped through the front door. "Do you even bother to hurry back as you're told? It's a good job that Vernon isn't in, or I don't know what he'd say! Now get in your cupboard until I call you."

Harry nodded, slipping past her and into his cupboard noiselessly. The only sound was the door clicking shut gently, but had Petunia listened at the door (and she sometimes did to check for wrongdoing) she would have heard a relieved sigh, and the sound of her young charge sinking to the floor.

For as long as he could remember, the cupboard under the stairs had been his bedroom. It was the only place in the house that was entirely his, and no one else ventured in very often. Harry liked the cupboard, or at least didn't hate it as much as he pretended to; Uncle Vernon hated it when Harry was happy, so if Harry hated the cupboard then Uncle Vernon would make sure he stayed in there as often as possible. Harry made sure to hate the cupboard with a little extra gusto when his uncle was around.

Once inside, he wrapped the threadbare blanket inside around himself, and closed his eyes. The day had been a long one, but he felt safe again now, curled up in the darkness, in the only place in the house where his uncle did not hurt him. He did not know how long it had been until his aunt called him to the kitchen. Not long enough, he thought dully, as he got to his feet and left his sanctuary.

Aunt Petunia's nose wrinkled when he entered, as it often did when Harry was around. He wasn't entirely sure why she responded this way so automatically, or even if she was aware she was doing it. Several times, Harry later wondered if he smelled, but was sure he did not. He could only assume that Aunt Petunia was revolted by the mere sight of him. He felt a little colder inside for that thought.

"Here," she said, dropping a bucket filled with cleaning supplies onto the floor in front of him. "We have company over tonight and the bathroom is an absolute state. You have two hours to make it sparkle before the Masons will be arriving."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry picked up the bucket, which came nearly to his knees, and dragged it up the stairs behind him. He had not made eye contact with his aunt, but instead kept his gaze fixed on the floor; he had learnt the hard way that such insolence would not be tolerated from him.

He liked it when he was given jobs like this one. Jobs where there was a clear goal: to make the bathroom look sparkling clean all over; and where there was a set time limit: two hours. This way, it couldn't be said that he had not done his job properly, when both the aim and time limit of the task had been pre-set. Still, he mused, that hadn't stopped them from changing the rules later on before. Harry was quickly getting used to the fact that, in his world at least, no one could be trusted not to change the rules at a moment's notice.

Downstairs he could hear Aunt Petunia beginning to make the dessert for dinner. He smiled ruefully; he'd love to be able to try some dessert one day. Not today though, he knew that without a doubt. He wouldn't even be allowed to leave his cupboard for the duration of the Masons' visit. Not that he minded too much, since earlier that day, he'd found a discarded book in the street that looked interesting to him. It was a bit worse for wear, and some of the pages looked like he might have to make up what had been written, but other than that, it was a perfectly good book. 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' Harry thought it said it was called, or something similar. An odd name for a book, but a book was a book, and he rarely got his hands on any, except for in school.

With his treasured hours of leisure that evening fixed firmly in mind, Harry took to the cleaning quickly and efficiently. He had done this more than once before, and he was becoming quite apt at it, even if the detergent made his hands feel tight and sore afterwards, and even if the fumes gave him a headache.

Aunt Petunia just gave one tight nod when he had finished, and took the bucket away from him. Harry smiled slightly to himself when her back was turned – he must really have done well this time if she had taken the bucket downstairs for him. With a glass of milk and a slice of buttered bread – buttered! – he was sent to his cupboard for the rest of the evening. The Masons arrived later on, and their talk drifted into a comforting background noise for Harry, who began to absorb his new book from the light that came in from under the door. He never questioned how such little light brightened the entire cupboard, and not for a long time would he suspect it had anything to do with his own presence. All in all, it had not been a bad day for Harry.

* * *

The next morning, Dudley must have noticed that Harry wasn't in as subdued a mood as usual and made a concerted effort to make life that little bit worse for him. Harry tried to ignore him and ate the porridge he'd been given in silence, his mind still on the book he'd been reading. Would Edward give himself away and admit that he'd been to Narnia before, he wondered? He kept his thoughts on this safer train of thought until they left for school – he by foot, and Petunia and Dudley in the car.

"Good morning, Ms Roberts," he said, smiling brightly at the secretary when he stepped inside the school. He chose not to remain outside with some of the other children; once Aunt Petunia had left, Dudley would become even nastier than before.

"Good morning, Harry," she replied, walking around from her office to speak to him. "How are you finding your first few days back at school?"

Harry's smile faltered slightly, and he wrapped his arms a little more tightly around himself without realising it. "Not too badly, thank you."

"And how are you liking your new teacher, Mr Glass?" She watched him sharply, hoping that he had not been the cause of Harry's dislike of the new term. She already knew that Simon had taken an interest in this particular student.

"He's very nice, Miss," Harry replied, "he's very cheerful, and he picked my lion as the mascot for our table." Here Harry smiled brightly, and Ms Roberts smiled back just as cheerfully. "Dudley wasn't very happy about that though."

"You're sitting with Dudley this year?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, and Harry nodded, dropping his eyes.

"I didn't choose to sit with him," Harry said quietly. Then he looked up and smiled again. "He thinks I should be sitting with the 'stupid kids'." This last bit he said in an imitation of his cousin and his smile twisted faintly into one of mocking. Clearly Harry knew that he and Dudley had been seated with the struggling members of the class.

From somewhere outside, a bell rang for a few moments before falling silent. Harry smiled again at the secretary. "See you later, Ms Roberts," he said with a wave. He spun around and turned towards his classroom. He stopped short when he saw Mr Glass standing behind him – had he been standing there all that time? "Good morning, Mr Glass, sir."

His teacher smiled back, but it seemed a little more forced that Harry remembered from the day before. "Good morning, Harry." And then Harry had gone, disappearing down the corridor as quickly as he could without running.

"I think you startled him," Jackie said, turning her attention to Simon for the first time since he'd been standing there.

He frowned slightly. "I did not intend to," he told her, and then paused, "Does he always behave in that manner with you?"

Jackie crossed her arms over her chest, and leant back against her desk. "Yes, of course he does. How would you expect him to behave?"

"I don't know. He just doesn't act like that in class," he explained. Jackie didn't look particularly affected by this last statement, so he added, "ever. He doesn't speak much at all, or even in that manner when he does. He just…"

He broke off then and Jackie watched him impassively. "Simon, you've only known this kid a day. I know he's probably not the same in class as outside, but you could say that for any of them. I've known Harry a couple of years now and I've… well, he knows he can rely on me. He's comfortable around me. He doesn't know you yet. Give him time."

She gave him a warm smile and walked back into her office, leaving Simon standing outside, staring down the corridor after Harry. He could understand that Harry knew Jackie better than himself, but the difference was striking. Harry seemed to have an air of someone quite a lot older than the other children around him, as if some weight were holding him down. And then, when he had mentioned Dudley Dursley, mocking him, his face twisting into what could only have been a sneer. He knew that he was sitting with the struggling children, yet some of the smartest children in there had no idea that they were seated according to ability.

He's just perceptive, Simon told himself when he wandered back to his classroom. The conversation kept running through his head, and he wondered what Dudley Dursley had to do with Harry Potter. He had been specifically mentioned between Jackie and Harry, and he had no idea why. Simon sighed and ran a hand through his hair; it hadn't felt so bad yesterday, being the new teacher, but today he felt like an outsider entirely.

He sighed and stepped back into the classroom. "Good morning, class."

* * *

The bell rang for dinner and Simon watched the children go, feeling more relieved than he probably ought to. He found himself wanting to watch Harry's every move and figure the kid out, and to avoid acting out this odd wish, he spent most of his time on the opposite side of the room. Grabbing his lunchbox from his bag, he waited for the halls to clear of the swarms of children and walked along to the staffroom where many were already drinking as much coffee as possible and eating their lunches.

He had sat himself down next to Margaret, and was listening to her ranting furiously about one of the children in her class who had dared to use some rather profane language towards her. Simon was glad at least that he didn't have to put up with that kind of behaviour yet. At seven, his class was hopefully a little young for that.

"So what are you going to do?" Dennis asked bravely, but seeing the withering look she sent his way probably instantly regretted it.

"I'm uncertain as of yet. I must admit that most of my thoughts are probably going to see me sacked," she admitted. Simon smiled and took a bite of his sandwich.

At that moment, the staffroom door opened and Jackie stuck her head inside. "Stephen, some first aid please," she said, leaving the door open when she left.

"I wonder who's the first to be hurt this year?" Dennis asked, glancing out of the window for clues.

"I bet it's that idiot Mitchells in year five, I saw him climbing the drainpipes round the back of the school earlier," Stephen said, grabbing the first aid bag from the cupboard and stepping right over the coffee table. "Stupid kid, I'm not going to be sympathetic if it is him."

He pulled the door to behind him, and the rest of the staffroom resumed their conversation.

"Ah, Mr Montgomery, thank you for coming so quickly," Jackie said when he arrived at her office. She moved to one side and Stephen could clearly see a young boy sitting on her chair.

"Hello, Harry," he said, smiling slightly. "What happened to you today?"

Harry looked down at that question, his eyes fixing on the floor, as the staff had seen them do many a time. He had clearly been in some kind of a scuffle during the first part of the dinner break; his trousers had gone through at the knee, and blood was beginning to seep into the material, one of his elbows was bleeding, and there was a scratch down the left side of his face.

Harry chewed his lip, trying to decide how to respond. "I fell over, sir."

Jackie and Stephen shared a look over his head that Harry didn't see. "I see, and what was it that caused you to fall over?"

Harry fell silent again, and this time, neither Jackie nor Stephen thought that he would answer. "Harry, it's okay. You know you can tell us anything, right? We just want to help you, and if we know who did this to you then we can try to keep you safe. We can try to keep you away from them," said Jackie, kneeling down to look at him.

"It was Dudley and his friends again," he told them quietly, and Stephen had to strain his ears to hear him. "Piers and Gordon."

Stephen bent down and began to clean Harry's elbow with cotton wool. "Thank you for telling us. We'll do whatever we can to make sure this doesn't happen again."

'We'll do whatever we can.' The words ran round Harry's head. He had wished Mr Montgomery had said 'whatever we have to' but under the circumstances, he supposed it was better than nothing. It was almost nice having someone cleaning up his minor scrapes. At home, Dudley had often come running in to Aunt Petunia when he had been hurt, and she had fussed over him and cleaned him up. When it was him, he was told not to get blood on anything, and left to take care of himself. It made a nice change.

"Perhaps you can spend the rest of lunch time helping me re-organise the library," Jackie said to Harry, who nodded in return. It had clearly been the right thing to say to him, because he seemed to relax a little more after that, and become a little more at ease in their presence.

"I found a new book yesterday," Harry confided in them whilst Stephen pressed a plaster onto his knee. They both looked at him in interest, partly because of the happiness in his voice, and partly because he had voluntarily divulged this information. "It's called 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'."

"Ah I remember that. One of my old favourites," Stephen said to him. "A wonderful tale. Have you read very much of it so far?"

"Not really, fifty pages maybe," he told them.

"And who's your favourite character so far?" Jackie asked, moving to sit next to Harry.

Stephen watched Harry speaking to Jackie. It was strange, the transformation that had taken place in front of his eyes. Once he had known he was safe for the rest of the day, Harry had become far more at ease, and now that he was talking about something that interested him, he was almost as enthusiastic as he ought to be.

"Well that's you pieced back together then," Stephen said, putting everything back into the little first aid bag. It had not been as bad as some of the things he had had to deal with in the past, and for that he was grateful. "I hope you feel a bit better now, Harry."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Harry was smiling again, as if nothing had ever happened, and Stephen was grateful for that if nothing else.

"Well then, why don't you as Ms Roberts head off to the library? I hear it's in complete disarray, and just waiting for someone who has a good eye for books to go and set it straight again," said Stephen before taking his leave of them and vanishing back to the staffroom.

"Let's go then, shall we?" Jackie said, and since there was no one around, she took Harry's hand for the short walk to the library and held it until they got there. Harry was both startled and mystified by this action, but did not let go. He didn't think anyone had ever wanted to hold his hand before.

Back in the staffroom, Stephen sat down with a sigh, dropping the first aid kit onto the table in front of him.

"Who was the victim then?" Dennis asked, pouring a cup of coffee and pushing it across the table to Stephen.

He took it gratefully. "One of yours, Simon," he told him. "Harry. Been pushed around by some of the other kids by the sounds of it. Just a few cuts and grazes, but it does look like Dudley did it. He definitely didn't just fall over."

Simon felt strangely like he was sinking. He hoped that this was a one-off incident, but from the looks on the faces of the other members of staff, it wasn't looking like it. Margaret even went so far as to look as un-surprised as she could possibly muster at such short notice.

"So where is he now then?" Dennis asked. "You didn't just send him back out there, did you?"

"Yeah, I did," Stephen said, taking another sip of coffee. "I sent him back out there, and called Dudley over, and told them to resume where they'd left off. Dudley pushed him over again, and I went back inside."

"Yeah, all right. You've made your point," Dennis said sourly, pulling the plate of biscuits away when Stephen reached for them. "I just wondered where he'd gone, that's all. You needn't be so sarcastic, Steve. Just because you're frustrated…"

"He's helping Jackie sort the library out," Stephen explained. "And I'm not frustrated. I'm just irritated that I've lost out some precious free time."

Dennis raised an eyebrow disbelievingly, but chose not to comment.

It was only his second day, and already one of his students was getting hurt by another one of them, Simon mused, sighing silently into his mug. He wasn't sure what to do to try to help the situation. He got to his feet, and left the staffroom behind. He knew that he had to go speak to Harry – the child was his responsibility now, and he didn't want to stay in the staffroom listening to any more talking on the topic.

Behind him, he heard low muttering starting up as soon as he'd closed the door. He wondered what it was they were saying as he headed off to the library.

The library was a small room at the heart of the school. It was just behind the main assembly hall, and it was lined with paintings done by the students over the last few years. Some pictures by Harry were probably in there, Simon thought when he pushed the main doors open. It had books for all ages, even some that really were a bit too difficult for the eldest children, but they were all read at some time or another. In the centre of the library, he could see Jackie telling Harry which books needed to go where, but from the looks on both their faces, both of them knew that he didn't need telling.

"Good afternoon, Harry; Ms Roberts." Harry looked up at him sharply, and then as if remembering the cut down the side of his face, turned away again just as swiftly.

Jackie smiled warmly. It was clear she knew why he was there, and approved. That was also a good thing. He didn't want her to think he didn't know what he was doing, even if he felt like he didn't for most of the time at the minute.

"How are you, Harry?" he asked, moving to sit down opposite where the young boy was sorting through books. "I hear that you've had some trouble this lunchtime."

Harry was torn between looking up at his teacher because it was polite to acknowledge someone when they were speaking to you, or continuing to look away because he felt strangely like he might cry after all the attention and kindles that Ms Roberts and Mr Montgomery had already shown him. He feared that if Mr Glass was just as nice, he might not be able to stop himself.

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Mr Montgomery patched me back up. He was very nice to me, sir."

Simon smiled faintly. "Good, I'm glad you're feeling a little better. But you didn't do this to yourself, did you? Do you mind telling me who hurt you, so that I can make sure they can't do it again?"

Harry bit his lip. That was the kind of declaration he had been afraid of. It had sounded very certain to him – Mr Glass had said that he wouldn't let him be hurt by them again. He wondered if his eyes were beginning to water. Still, with a promise like that, it could easily be broken, and then he'd be very disappointed. Not that he deserved protecting, part of his mind that sounded like it could have been Uncle Vernon reminded him.

He looked up suddenly, and realised that Mr Glass was waiting for a reply. "It was Dudley, sir."

Mr Glass nodded, as if he had already known this. Harry was not to know that he had. Nor was he to know that simply telling Simon had warmed the teacher somewhat. Clearly he was on the right track here. "Well I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that you're safe in this school, Harry."

The young boy looked away then, afraid that such a simple act of kindness was going to reduce him to a snivelling mess. Somewhere in the school, the bell began to ring, and it was all Harry could do to choke out a barely audible, "Thank you, Mr Glass," and meeting his gaze for a single moment before running off out of the library.

Simon got to his feet when Harry escaped, and looked helplessly after him. "I think you may have overwhelmed him," said Jackie, getting to her feet.

He looked back to her, but she didn't look disappointed. She was still smiling, and Simon supposed that he had done well, even if Harry seemed more upset by his kindness than Dudley's cruelty. It would not be the last time that he would wonder what kind of upbringing Harry must be having to induce that kind of reaction to such incidents.

Still, he felt far lighter when he returned to his classroom that day, and the first thing he did – much to the confusion of the students - was to move the classroom around, moving Harry as far from Dudley Dursley as he could.


	3. Enter Mrs Dursley

Chapter Three

"Their parents should be told about this," Simon said, the passion he spoke with turning to confusion at the responses he received. Jackie turned her eyes away, and sighed softly into her mug. Dennis feigned a previous appointment and all but ran from the room. Margaret directed her bored expression elsewhere, and Stephen came to sit down on the coffee table in front of him.

"It's no good, Simon," Stephen said quietly for some reason that Simon couldn't fathom.

He looked between the members of staff sitting around him, his colleagues, and couldn't imagine any of them purposefully doing anything that could bring harm to a child, and yet why wouldn't they help him?

"I don't understand," he said, frustration lacing his voice, "Dudley Dursley's parents need to be told that he has hurt, or is hurting, another student, and Harry's parents need to be told that he's being picked on. _I_ don't understand why this is so hard for _you_ to understand!"

Margaret sighed next to him. "You don't understand the situation."

"And no one will explain it to me!" Simon all but shouted into the small room.

"It's not as simple as it seems to be," Stephen started again, "and we are telling you now that by telling Harry's guardians what is going on, that it will far more harm than good. This isn't the first time something like this has happened between those two. It's been an on-going thing."

"All the more reason to let the parents know then!"

Margaret turned an icy glare onto him. "Please start thinking properly; you're meant to be imparting knowledge, and it concerns me that you cannot use whatever is sitting between your ears." Simon turned to her sharply. "We're telling you that this has happened more than once, as in, it has happened more than once over the last two years that those boys have been at this school. You're telling us to contact parents and we're reluctant to do so. Instead of hearing us out, you're saying that you're going to contact them anyway."

She stopped then to stare at him, as if weighing him, or her words. Simon suddenly realised that he didn't want her to finish the rest of her argument.

Margaret smiled almost viciously then. "So one of two things is happening here. Either you think that our experience in this matter is not valid enough evidence to be used against contacting the parents, and that we are deliberately trying to prevent you helping a child, and thusly deliberately _endangering_ a child –" Simon opened his mouth to protest loudly, but she cut him off before he could even begin "— _or_ you are going against our advice purely to satisfy your own curiosity in order to get to the bottom of this situation, meaning that it is _you_ putting the wellbeing of someone in our care into doubt."

She stopped and stared at him levelly again. Simon could only stare and gape in horror. Somehow, he hadn't envisaged this scenario. "I – I didn't … that's not what I – "

"No, go on, Simon," Margaret said, a dangerous glint touching her eyes. "You were very keen to be shouting about how we're not actively helping by telling the parents before. What's changed? Not so keen to point the finger now?"

Simon could only stare and flounder. He was well out of his depth here, and he knew it.

"That's enough, Margaret," Stephen said, butting in sharply. "You know as well as we do that he's only trying to help."

"Well he can't!"

"Give him a chance," Jackie said quietly. "Just because you've all but given up on the situation."

Margaret got to her feet suddenly then, and left without a word. The door slammed shut behind her, and Simon, Jackie and Stephen were left sitting in a strained silence behind her.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on? They're my students, I feel like I need to know whatever I can about them." Simon ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to tug at it furiously,

Stephen nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor for a moment, in a strange imitation of Harry. "You talk about contacting the parents, but Harry doesn't have any. They died in a car crash when he was one, and so he lives with his aunt and her family."

Simon nodded, not quite seeing the problem.

"The relatives that Harry lives with are the Dursleys, Simon," Jackie explained, cutting to the chase. "Dudley and Harry live with each other. It's a family matter."

The wind seemed to have been taken straight from Simon's sails, and he deflated then, feeling older and more tired than he had in a long time. He felt very much like he already knew the answer to his next question. "Has someone mentioned to the Dursleys about their fighting before then?"

"Margaret taught Harry the year before last, in his first year here," said Stephen, frowning slightly. "None of us had realised at the time that the two of them were cousins who lived together, and you'd certainly never guess. Then one day, something similar to this happened, and Margaret went to the files to get the phone numbers. She was astounded when she realised that they were both the same. Got into a bit of a fight with Jackie about it, I believe…"

Jackie pulled a face. Simon had noticed that the two women did not frequently speak to one another, but hadn't put it down to a particular falling out. Over files, no less.

"She said I'd botched the files, and lost a contact number for a student," she said to them. "but you don't check all the numbers before they go into the system. I thought I must have made some kind of mistake, but all the information was there. It really did seem to be the same emergency contact. I still can't believe she dared to call my occupational skills into question." She was clearly seething, and Simon didn't dare to comment.

"Margaret phoned and Mrs Dursley came to the school the next day, demanding to see her. Wanting to know who dared accuse her 'wonderful son of being a bully when that nasty lying rat of a boy' was the victim." Stephen said the last bit in a strange shrill impression that rang slightly in his ears. "She wouldn't hear of him doing anything against anyone, let alone Harry, and you make any kind of accusation on that front at all and I can guarantee she'll be here the next day after your blood."

Simon frowned and stared out at the empty playground. The children had all gone home now, and he hadn't moved quickly enough to catch Mrs Dursley before she had left. Now he wasn't sure he was glad or not that she had escaped his wrath. He no longer knew what to do. What was the point in telling the woman what was going on if she would refuse to listen to it?

"I don't know what to do now," Simon admitted to them.

"I assure you, none of us knew then, and we still don't know now," Stephen said almost sadly. "The kind of thing you've seen today happens a lot, and from the state Harry sometimes comes to school in, it happens at home too. I'm betting Mrs Dursley doesn't do a whole lot to keep them at peace there either."

Simon paced back and forth along the length of the room. "I just don't feel like I can just let this go, you know? I feel like she needs to know how often this is happening, even if she's at this school every day for the rest of the year."

Stephen got to his feet then, grabbing his jacket from the hooks next to the door. "Then by all means do so, but on your head be it when she won't leave you alone and she's hounding you day in day out. Be prepared for her to go to Ruth with some vague accusations about you also, that's what Dennis got last year." He turned back to them before leaving. "Go home and try to get some sleep, Simon, yeah? Maybe things will look a little clearer in the morning."

Simon could only nod when his colleagues walked out of the staffroom and away from the school. He made sure to pick up the phone number for the Dursleys when he left.

* * *

Harry was happily curled up in his cupboard after dinner, later that evening. He was enjoying his new book thoroughly; he had finished it once before, but was reading through again more slowly, trying to savour it this time. Before it was inevitably taken away from him somehow. His possessions never really seemed to last very long. The soft glow that came from underneath the door was lighting up the whole of his cupboard again with a comforting radiance, and he was copying out his favourite sentences onto the walls and the ceiling in the chalk that had come his way the week before last. He wanted a lasting memory of this book, and he was sure they weren't about to take his cupboard away from him, nor would they waste his energy cleaning it, when he could be cleaning something else.

Out in the hallway, the phone rang exactly three times before Aunt Petunia picked it up. It was always the case – somehow, she was never more than three rings away, nor any fewer. It was one of the strange things about his aunt that Harry suspected that no one else really noticed. There was a lot that other people didn't notice often, Harry often thought to himself. Sometimes, he felt like he didn't really belong in the world, and that instead he was just a casual observer, and so he did what a casual observer would do, and observed. The price he paid to see all that he did was a few chores a day, and Harry considered that it was not too high a price to pay as long as everything was done properly.

"Bullying you say?" Aunt Petunia's sharp voice cut through the quiet in the hallway like a knife through butter, and Harry wondered if the temperature had just dropped suddenly without him realising it. The light in his cupboard dimmed, and he slid his little book away under some miscellaneous items that were stored in there along with him. He wrapped his arms around himself, willing himself to just disappear into thin air, if at all possible. Or at the very least, for the Dursleys to forget that he existed, just for a little while.

"Well I don't care what you say, my Dudley would never do such a thing! You must be mistaken. Who is the poor victim in question?" The last was uttered with contempt that Harry could see in his mind's eye. It was often directed at him, and this time, he was sure it was still directed at him. His aunt just didn't realise it yet.

"What do you mean, you won't tell me? You could be making this up for all I know. I demand a name – well I think that the poor victim's name is perfectly relevant, thank you very much."

There was a long pause, during which Harry didn't realise he was holding his breath.

"Then I'll be seeing you tomorrow. I won't tolerate such slander!" A crash sounded through the hallway, and Harry suspected that it was the phone being thrown to the floor in a rare loss of control.

"_Boy!_" Harry curled in on himself in his cupboard. Surely she didn't know it was him that Mr Glass had been talking about? How could she? But then it was Aunt Petunia. She would probably just assume it was him, as it was, and make sure that he was punished for it.

The cupboard door was flung wide open, and harsh light filled the space. Harry shielded his eyes with his hand, and stared up into the angry face of his aunt. She peered around the cupboard for a long moment, unseeing of everything inside it, including Harry. The door slammed shut suddenly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Feet stomped directly above, and he could still hear her calling for him. He couldn't understand why she hadn't seen him in there, and supposed that he ought to just go out and present himself. But then again, she was clearly angry about the conversation she'd just had, and that would never lead anywhere good for him. Besides, hadn't he just begged mentally to just disappear?

Aunt Petunia seemed to stomp around the house for a long time, until giving up and going into the living room. Harry wasn't allowed in there – as the cupboard was his, the living room was theirs, and he wasn't even slightly curious as to whatever went on in there. He didn't even clean that room.

It seemed to take a long time for him to calm down, but eventually he did, and Harry was granted a whole evening all to himself. When Vernon came in, there was no talk of him and his freakish ways, as there often was. Supper was eaten in the living room, but Harry was not called to make it. It was truly as if they had forgotten all about him.

And for that one evening, Harry was content in his home.

It was a memory he would hang onto for some time, or the feeling at least. The feeling of contentment and safety that he couldn't remember feeling before, or at least perhaps faintly in his dreams. It was a feeling that he would certainly cling to the next day when he went to school.

The day itself passed without event, and even Dudley ignored him for the most part, unless attention was called directly to him, which is very rarely was. Harry marvelled that whatever it was that had made the Dursleys ignore him had even worked on them for most of the next day, too.

"Harry, a moment please," Mr Glass said to him at the end of the day. Harry stood before him at his desk, watching his teacher while his teacher watched him. Eventually, Mr Glass frowned faintly, and explained why he had been held back. "I'm going to speak to your aunt today, about what's happened between you and Dudley."

At that, all thoughts that had occupied Harry's mind before to do with the close up examination of his teacher fled his mind. He wondered if Mr Glass could see the colour leaving his face, because he was certain that he could feel it doing so.

"No! You can't!" he cried, without thinking. Mr Glass looked thoroughly shocked at the outburst. "Please, please don't tell her. It won't happen again, I won't let it."

A hand pressed his shoulder slightly, and Mr Glass knelt in front of him. His eyes looked kind, Harry noted absently. "Harry, this isn't your fault. Your aunt needs to know that your cousin is hurting you. You aren't the one in trouble here."

Simon turned from Harry then, and almost didn't hear the murmured, "I will be," that followed him. He wasn't sure whether or not to go through with this. He could easily send Harry on his way, and avoid Mrs Dursley when she appeared at the school. The reactions of the other teachers the day before had worried him all night, and Harry's reaction worried him, too, but he stood by his principles. She needed to know. He ignored the slight feeling of unease inside him that whispered that there was more going on than met the eye, and walked to the doorway. A sour-faced woman was already standing there, and Dudley Dursley was standing behind her. Simon felt his determination strengthen when he saw the smug look on the boy's face; he was used to winning.

"You!" she said, stepping straight into the classroom. She sent one sharp glare at Harry, but kept her attention otherwise focused on Simon. "You're the one who phoned me last night."

"That's correct, Mrs Dursley."

She turned back on Harry. "You. Go home. Now."

Harry didn't need telling twice, and the door clicked softly behind him. Dudley stayed on the sidelines however, and Simon found himself wishing that Harry had stayed. Simon wanted him to see someone defend him.

"What's all this about my Dudley bullying someone? I absolutely refuse to believe such lies! He wouldn't hurt a fly!" yelled Mrs Dursley. "So who is the poor victim then? Is it that wretched ingrate?" She waved her arm behind her at the door, through which Harry had just passed.

"I don't see how the person involved is relevant," Simon said. "The fact is that your son is actively trying to hurt another member of my class, and I will not stand for it."

"Well, I refuse to believe it. I think you're a nasty liar."

Simon stepped back then, as if he'd been slapped. "Excuse me, but I have no reason whatsoever to lie to you. I do not enjoy telling parents things of this nature, but I feel it has to be said. I hope that you can understand this." He said the majority of this through gritted teeth. He could feel his anger rising, and he was usually relatively cool-headed. He was close to losing control, and he knew it. The woman had only been there a couple of minutes.

"And how is Harry doing?" she asked then, changing the topic of conversation suddenly, though there was something about the way she'd said her nephew's name that sat strangely with him.

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances!" Simon snapped at her. He closed his eyes when he realised what he'd said, and opened them to a purely malicious look of victory on Mrs Dursley's face.

"So it is the boy then, that my Dudley's supposedly bullying," she said quietly. She picked up her bag from the table, where she'd let it rest for the short while she'd been in the room. "I know you're new to this school, so let me give you a piece of advice. I live with that boy, and he's nothing but a nasty little liar. He's even unpleasant on the eye. My Dudley, on the other hand, is as sweet as you could ask for. Perhaps you've heard tell of lies spun by the boy in previous years, but I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. You'd do well to ignore the boy from now on, Mr Glass."

Then, in a whirl of her coat, she was gone. Simon was left standing in the room, stunned. The situation had got so quickly out of hand that he could barely begin to piece together what he could have done better. He had imagined that she would be angry with him, but he had not imagined that she would clearly glean that it was Harry who Dudley had been hurting, nor had he imagined that she'd so easily be able to turn the situation around and imply that it was Harry at fault.

Through the window, he watched Mrs Dursley and her son climb into the car closest to the school, and drive away. He ran a hand through his hair, and tugged at it in frustration. If he could have changed anything, he had wished he could have prevented her from finding out that it was Harry. He had wanted to protect him, to prove that he could find Dudley at fault without giving away the name of the injured party.

Her words rang in his head while he closed up the classroom, and walked the deserted hallways. He had a hard time believing the kinds of things she'd said about Harry, but she knew him far better than he did. But he had been hurt, and she was clearly blinded by her love for her son. Simon wrapped his arms around himself, until he got to the staffroom. Four pairs of eyes looked up at him expectantly, but he waved them off, letting his expression do the talking for him. He grabbed his jacket and turned away from them all.

"_Please! Please don't tell her!_" he heard ringing in his ears, and he walked more swiftly to his car. Why had he been so desperate to keep such things from his aunt? Would Dudley become more vicious when he'd realised he could get away with it again? Simon swallowed against the lump in his throat, and squeezed his fist tightly.

He heard his name called from the school, and turned back with his key dangling in his car door. "Jesus, I'm not as fit as I used to be!" Stephen gasped when he'd caught up to him. He doubled over, his hands on his knees for a minute.

Simon gave him a rueful smile when he straightened back up. Stephen returned it. "Listen, Simon," he began, and then began wheezing again. Simon smiled a little more widely this time, and leant back against his car.

"You perhaps need a little more exercise," Simon suggested, a faint smile making its way onto his face.

"You don't need to tell me that," sighed Stephen. "Easier said than done when you work full time, I think you'll find. Or do you go home after a long day and run around the local park?"

"You ran after me for a reason, Steve."

Stephen's face became more serious then, and he met his friend's downcast gaze with determination. "I know it didn't go so well this afternoon with that Dursley woman," he said, and held off any remarks by carrying on quickly, "but you can't give up so easily. She can be quick with words, that one, but there's no substance to it. It's just been one day, one meeting. You've a slightly clearer idea of what you're up against now, and you'll have to plan accordingly for the next time you meet her, that's all."

Simon laughed a hollow laugh then, and a slightly bitter smile crossed his face. "The next time I meet her? What makes you so sure that there'll be a next time?"

Stephen mimicked his smile momentarily. "Listen, I know those kids, all right? This'll happen again, and again, and I can tell already that you're not one that'll give up easily, just because something's difficult. Don't give up before you've even begun, Simon."

Simon nodded then, and Stephen left. On the drive home, he watched the pavement almost obsessively, and at more than a little impediment to the safety of his driving. He remembered Harry being told to go home, and then seeing the two Dursleys quickly climbing into an empty car outside the school. Somehow, he didn't think they'd be in the mood for picking up the boy who she perceived had caused them all that trouble. Leaving young Harry to walk home alone.

For a brief moment, he thought he saw him. He was so convinced, that at the earliest opportunity, he spun the car around and drove back the other way to get a closer look, fully intending to give Harry a lift home himself. He felt like he owed it to the boy, if nothing else. But when he got to where he thought he'd see him, there was no sign of a little black-haired boy whatsoever. Simon felt his heart sink, and the rest of his drive home was subdued and Harry-free.


	4. The Magic Cupboard

Chapter Four

He had narrowly escaped the wrath of his uncle the night before, but Harry knew that he wouldn't be so lucky on two evenings running. Not now that Aunt Petunia knew that he was the one that Dudley had been bullying. He knew without having been there that she would know; Aunt Petunia had a way of irritating people to the point where they'd tell her anything without realising it. It was a skill that Harry envied on occasion.

The house had felt more tense than it had in a while that night, and Harry strongly suspected it was to do with school and Dudley. It had only been a week and already things were becoming difficult for him. He didn't want teachers to get involved in this, though he suspected that Mr Glass had his best interests at heart, because really, how could things get any better? He had given up realistic hopes of anyone ever rescuing him from the Dursleys a long time ago, and if he allowed himself to daydream idly in the evenings of a man coming to save him, it was with full knowledge that it was entirely fiction.

He was not called upon until after dinner, giving him a little time to peruse the newspaper he'd discovered earlier on. He didn't understand much of it, but it was a welcome change from Narnia, his favourite parts of which he was still scribbling onto the walls to make a more permanent version of them.

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end as he cleared the kitchen table. Dudley had retired to his video games upstairs, and Aunt Petunia was in the lounge doing whatever it was they did inside there. Harry was not allowed inside the lounge, and had only caught the briefest of glimpses of it over the last few years. Uncle Vernon, however, had not retired to another part of the house, and was watching him like a hawk while he wiped down the counters and the table he was barely tall enough to reach.

When he'd finished, he stood before Uncle Vernon waiting to be excused. He kept his eyes on the floor, as he'd been taught, and barely moved an inch.

"So, boy, you're ungrateful for our hospitality?" Uncle Vernon said in that dangerous voice that heralded bad things to come. Harry dared to glance up at him through his lashes, and could see that his uncle was breathing heavily, a glass of red wine in his hand that he hadn't noticed before. Things never ended well when Uncle Vernon had been drinking, even just a little bit.

"You're unhappy with the roof we've put over your head, so you're spreading foul lies at that school of yours?" Uncle Vernon continued, and Harry dared not answer or interrupt. "How dare you shame us in this way? Get upstairs. Now!"

Harry felt his blood run cold, and his feet began to move of their own accord, as slowly as he dared. Uncle Vernon jabbed him sharply in the back, and told him he'd be up shortly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see that he was pouring himself another glass of wine. It was rare that he was sent Upstairs; he was often there to clean or repair Dudley's broken things, but otherwise, it was part of the house that was foreign to him. Upstairs was reserved for punishment for whatever heinous crime Harry had unwittingly committed that day. He stood alone in Dudley's second bedroom, listening to the house, and dreading the sound of Uncle Vernon's footsteps on the stairs.

Focus on something else, he told himself sharply. Don't think about what's coming. Thing about something else. And so it was with his mind firmly entrenched in the world of Narnia that he awaited his uncle, and if he was hurt a little, it was a distant pain that couldn't reach so far as his home on the other side of War Drobe.

Sitting in his cupboard later on, his body still trembling faintly, he felt things beginning to ache where Uncle Vernon had hit him, or eventually kicked him. He had been told to make sure he didn't make such mistakes again as informing the teachers that Dudley had done anything to him. How dare he slander such an outstanding person as Dudley? Harry wasn't quite sure what slander was, but he'd read a passing reference to it in the paper earlier, and he gathered that it wasn't a good thing to be doing.

The light in his cupboard dimmed and went out of its own accord, and Harry smiled faintly. This happened to him often when he'd been hurt beyond a sharp slap by his aunt, or a single strike from Dudley. He'd be sitting on his own in the cupboard and the lights would dim, then without warning, a warm feeling would envelope him. It felt like whatever it was, it was seeping into his very bones. Afterwards, he was left with the lingering feeling of warmth, and some of his more serious injuries were often healed. He didn't know why this happened, but he had long since realised that this only happened when he was alone and relaxed in his cupboard, and that it couldn't happen when the cupboard lighting was on.

Harry wondered if he was the only person with a magic cupboard.

And then he wondered what else it could do.

He suspected that it wasn't strong enough for whatever reason to light the room for him and help him get better at the same time, but even if this was so, Harry didn't mind. It was nice of the cupboard to help him like this anyway. He was very grateful to it.

The warm fuzzy feeling of the cupboard lasted for the rest of the night, and when he awoke the next morning, the only visible thing he had to show for it was the remnants of a particularly nasty mark on his arm where Uncle Vernon had held onto him for the duration of his punishments.

* * *

Simon closed his eyes with relief. Friday. The best day of the week. Even though he was at work, the sheer expectation of the weekend to come made it all bearable. Even when Hannah poured paint all over the floor, and when Jamie hit Zack for putting on his jacket by mistake. Nothing could ruin a good Friday. Nothing!

"Harry, if you'd come and read to me, please?" Simon said. He reserved the time before lunch to listen to the individual children reading aloud to him. Not only was it a necessary chore, but it was one of the easier ones, and he could zone out somewhat listening to the children reading to him, coming back to himself for long enough to correct pronunciation, or help with a particularly difficult word.

Harry was one of the better readers in the class, his voice gradually gaining confidence and a steady pace as he got into it, and forgot he was being listened to for long enough to lose his self consciousness. Simon remembered that he'd told Stephen the previous day about his reading The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, and supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Harry could speak aloud well if he read anything that crossed his path.

It was coming to the end of the ten minutes he had to listen to Harry, and Simon was just returning to the land of the living, maintaining the interested expression he'd been wearing all along. He glanced at the boy, frowning slightly at the sight of his threadbare clothes that looked vaguely absurd on him. Knowing what he did of Harry's home life, he would have put money on his attire being Dudley's cast-offs. Why wasn't he surprised that Petunia wouldn't pay for clothes just for Harry?

He noticed a strange purple mark on Harry's arm at that moment, and rolled his eyes slightly. Harry was one of the slightly messier pupils when it came to paint and anything that could get all over them, his zeal for the painting and the enjoyment of it overriding the remembrance to keep his clothes clean.

Just then, Harry reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and the sleeve slipped down to his elbow. It was all Simon could do not to gasp, or to reach out and grab his arm. But then it looked like someone else had already done that, and he didn't want to think how hard someone must have grabbed hold of this boy to mark such a clear handprint on his skin. One thing was clear to him in that precise moment – the print was too large to be that of any child, or even that of a woman like Petunia. His stomach lurched as he thought of the implications, and he felt vaguely sick.

Perhaps it had just been an accident, he rationalised to himself. Perhaps Harry had been sharply pulled out of the road and his life saved by someone, leaving behind a hand print? He felt that was pushing it a little.

"Sir?"

He glanced up at Harry and realised that the boy had stopped reading. He'd finished reading the book to him, and the rest of the class was becoming restless. Simon ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply.

"All right, thank you, Harry. That was lovely. You may go back to your seat now."

Harry gave him an unusually astute look for the briefest of moments, as if to say he knew perfectly well that he'd not listened to a word he'd read, but then the look was gone, replaced by an expressionless void.

Harry didn't bother to point out the lie to his teacher; he knew that nothing good would come of his insolence. He had always wondered why people bothered to lie, when it could be detected so easily. For as long as he could remember, he had always known whenever someone was telling the truth to him, and as he aged, he was beginning to tell to what extent a lie was being told. More and more, it seemed like those older than him were only telling half the truth when they spoke to him. He wondered if this was some strange adult way of life, as of yet unknown to him. As a result of his upbringing, he never pointed out the lies that people told, but he had a tendency to remember them. Harry never imagined that it was only he who could detect these falsehoods for some reason.

Restlessly, Harry tugged his shirt sleeve down to his wrist again. He was warm in the shirt, but didn't dare roll the sleeves up. He was embarrassed by the mark that lay stark against his pale skin, and for one dreadful moment, he'd been afraid that Mr Glass had seen it and would say something. He didn't, and the rest of the afternoon passed by uneventfully for everyone.

Eventually, the bell rang for the end of school, and Harry slumped slightly when he picked up his bag. He hated the weekend. Two whole days with no escape from his home.

"Harry, a moment, please?"

He was glad of the slight delay in going out to see his family. He hated to see them turn away from him and go home without him. This way, he could almost pretend that they'd never been there. There was no one who left him, because no one was ever there.

"Sir?"

"Harry, may I ask how you got that bruise on your arm?" Simon asked, watching Harry's face intently. He wondered whether or not it was his imagination making him think that the young boy's face was losing its colour or not.

"I almost fell down the stairs, sir. I was pulled back at the very last moment." Harry said, almost mechanically. He'd thought up his lie the previous evening, and thought it a not entirely unacceptable one. He waited for his teacher to call him on the lie, but he never did.

Mr Glass nodded in what seemed like a sad way, and then released him to go home with a quiet, "Have a good weekend, Harry." It was only when he was halfway home that Harry wondered for the first time if, for some reason, his teacher might have believed him. He resolved to try out his lying abilities again at some point in the near future on his relatives.

Simon stayed standing alone in his classroom long after Harry had disappeared from the school grounds and the other parents and their children had wandered away. It had been an innocent enough answer, but something about it didn't sit quite right with him. Perhaps it had been something in the way Harry had answered, or merely what he already knew of his life with the Dursleys, but he didn't quite believe it.

A weight had settled upon his chest then, and he felt far older than someone of his age ought to. All his joy at escape from the school had left him, and suddenly he just wanted to go home. He almost regretted becoming a teacher at that moment. Almost.

He took his time in leaving, and by the time he got to the staffroom, he found it deserted. There were few people that hung around the school when it was the weekend. He didn't blame them. Simon picked up his jacket, and was just about to leave, when something caught his eye.

He turned around, and found himself looking straight at the library. The door had been left slightly ajar, and without thinking why he was doing it, he wandered inside. It was as silent as the rest of the school was, but Jackie never left the door open, and he couldn't help but wonder who'd opened it.

"Hello?" he whispered quietly, not really expecting an answer. He heard something from further in, something that sounded like it might have been a soft gasp, and he moved towards it without thinking.

"Is anyone in here?" he tried again.

He came to the very end of the library, and he felt something inside him break slightly at the sight before him. There, in the very furthest part of the library was Harry Potter. He'd curled up in the cushions that had been provided, and had hidden himself away. Simon realised that no one would have found him had he not turned around to look inside the library, and Harry might have been here on his own all weekend. He was almost well hidden, and it was only his dark hair against the green cushions that had given him away.

"Oh, Harry," Simon said quietly, reaching out and removing the cushions from on top of the boy one by one. Green eyes stared up at him, watching him with such intensity, Simon almost looked away. "What are you doing here, child? I thought I saw you leave."

Harry sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. "I just wanted to read something," he whispered. Simon saw the book closest to the boy. The Magician's Nephew. Another Narnia book, he realised. He looked at Harry again but the boy seemed unwilling to meet his eyes again.

"Get up, Harry, you can't stay here." He gave him a hand to his feet, and Harry focused his eyes rather intently on the floor in front of him, as if he were waiting for it to do something exciting.

"Sorry, sir," Harry offered quietly.

"I'm the last one in the school," Simon told him. "If I hadn't realised you were in here, you could have been locked in all weekend. That wouldn't be so nice for you, would it?"

Harry didn't contradict him. It wouldn't be so nice at home either.

Simon picked up the book from the floor, aware that Harry was watching, and pressed it into the boy's hands. "Here, I'm sure Ms Roberts won't mind you borrowing this over the weekend."

Harry looked at the book as if it were treasure. Then he stared up at his teacher with the slightest of smiles on his face. "Thank you, sir. I'll take good care of it."

And before Simon had chance to say another word, Harry was gone. Definitely gone. Simon made sure he watched him walk right down the street before he left. On the way home, he tried very hard not to think about just why Harry Potter would knowingly hide in the school library at the weekend. He wasn't doing too badly until he remembered the way in which Harry had held his bruised arm against his chest to keep him from looking at it. He swallowed and focused on the road again. He wished again briefly that he'd never become a teacher.


	5. The Town's Child

**Chapter Five – The Town's Child**

The town seemed almost chaotic to the young boy who wandered amongst the market stalls unheeded. It felt like the last of the summer that early September day, and it was as if the townspeople knew it and were determined to make the best of it. Jackets were slung casually over arms, and a cool breeze ruffled hair and bags when it whistled down the narrow streets.

For as long as he could remember, Harry had wandered the streets on Saturday. He wasn't entirely sure why he was permitted to leave the house and go where he pleased, but he suspected it was something to do with cleansing the house of everything to do with him. He wasn't even asked to bring anything back with him, or to fetch anything on his journey.

It had begun with him playing in the street alone, whilst Dudley pushed the other children on the street into him, or chased him with his gang. As soon as Harry was sure he could find the way home, he had wandered far and wide in the hopes that his cousin wouldn't find him. The bright stalls present on a Saturday enthralled him, and a lonely bookshop on the corner had always provided hours of fascination. When Dudley made his rare appearances in the town, Harry often hid in the park around the corner, or ducked into the library. He knew the town far better than Dudley ever had done, and as well as this, he also knew the townspeople.

"How are you this fine Saturday morning, young Harry?" a voice asked from behind him. Harry turned to see the owner of the bookshop sitting on a bench facing the bright sunshine that warmed them all. He was an aging man, though if pressed, Harry could not have guessed exactly how old, and he knew only that he lived above his shop with a quiet wife he rarely saw, though she always had a smile for Harry when she appeared. More than once, Harry had tried to entertain just how the old man might spend his free time, and he strongly suspected that it had something to do with magic. Though he had always been told rather adamantly by his relatives that magic was not real, the more books he read, the more they seemed to confirm its existence.

He frowned slightly, there was just something about the way the old man moved with such unnatural agility at times that made Harry suspicious. His suspicions naturally lead him to magic, and he began coming to conclusions that the man was clearly magically speeding himself up, or making his old body more youthful, or was really a young man trapped in an old man's body… The list went on, each becoming slightly more unlikely than before.

"I'm quite well, thank you. How are you, Mr Bones?" Harry asked, automatically. Good manners had never been instilled into him by his Aunt, but he supposed that if he were Mr Bones, he should like to be asked how he was in return. If anyone ever commented on his manners, and they had done in the past, he merely stated that he only treated others how he wished to be treated himself.

The old man smiled faintly. "Not too badly, all things considered. Business is a little slower than usual, but never mind all that, why don't you come into my shop where it's a little cooler and tell me about your first week back at school."

Harry followed him into the small bookshop without question, as he had always done. Aunt Petunia rarely told him how to conduct himself when he was out alone, but she had always maintained that he should talk to strangers and wander off with them. That this was contrary to the advice she offered Dudley wouldn't occur to Harry for some time.

He had decided a long time ago that the bookshop was one of his favourite places in the entire world. It was a small room, filled with shelves upon shelves of dusty old books, all of which Harry longed to read. He had never been permitted to touch any of them, but one day he hoped to own one for himself. The light didn't seem to reach inside quite so far as it did with the rest of the shops on the street, and despite how busy the street was outside, Harry didn't think he'd ever been inside when any other customers had been present.

"So how's the new term working out for you, young one?" Mr Bones asked, putting a glass of milk and a few biscuits down before him. Harry smiled brightly and launched into the tale of his first week back at school, going into detail on his new teacher and Dudley's various misdeeds, stopping only to breathe and to eat another biscuit.

All the way through his story, Mr Bones seemed interested and mildly amused in parts. He seemed particularly interested in his new teacher. "Glass, you say? Now there's a name I've not heard in a long while now. Though it was an older man by that name I remember. Perhaps his son…" He looked thoughtfully over his spectacles at Harry, who squirmed slightly in his seat and looked away under such close scrutiny.

Then he smiled and shook his head. "Anyway, lovely to have your company again, Mr Potter."

Harry smiled. "And it was lovely to see you again, sir."

"Just make sure you take good care of yourself, and work hard at school. If you ever have any troubles, you know where I am." Harry nodded, smiling faintly. He said the same thing every week. "Here, take these for later."

Harry stared down at the plate of biscuits. He'd not been paying any attention to it, but he was certain he'd eaten more than the four biscuits that had been there originally, and yet, three more still sat upon its surface. Still, he hadn't been paying attention. Clearly there had been more there than he'd thought, or Mr Bones had been adding more when he wasn't watching. That was the only way to explain it.

He thanked the man again, and stepped back out of the shop into bright daylight. The biscuits felt slightly squashed in his pocket, and he was glad of the promise of at least a little more food later on.

The town was still bright, but it felt strangely like more time had passed than he had realised. Surely the sun had not been so low in the sky before? He frowned slightly, but didn't think too closely on the matter. There were still a couple more people in the town he wanted to see before he went back home, and with any luck he wouldn't be too late.

If anyone thought it odd for a seven year old to be running around the streets unheeded, they didn't say anything to the boy himself, and he went unnoticed when he slipped into a small alleyway just off the main street.

"Hey, Marnie," he said quietly, bending down to stroke the black cat that jumped up when she saw him coming. He broke off part of one of his biscuits and fed it to her before knocking on one of the few doors.

From the inside, Harry could hear shouts and the occasional crash coming through the walls, and just as he was about to leave and let them get on with their chaos, the backdoor opened and a frowning woman stood behind it.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Stone."

Her frown melted instantly, to be replaced by a bright smile. "Well aren't you a little late today? I was thinking you weren't going to be dropping by. How are you, Harry?" She swept him into the back of the town's local bakery without giving him time to respond.

"Look, Mum, I don't care what you say about it, I'm not –" the owner of the voice stopped when he saw Harry having been seated on the countertop. "Hey there, Harry! How're you doing? Oh, what've you done to your arm?"

The boy looked a few years older than Harry. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, he guessed, though he had never asked before. It wasn't often that he saw many of Mrs Stone's children; they always seemed busy or out of the house enjoying the sunshine. Though he knew them all on sight, it was rare that he spoke to any of them. Harry didn't often speak to people his own age if he could help it; Dudley had always prevented him from ever having a true friend with violence, and he no longer bothered.

"Hi, Jake. I… uh, slipped at school," Harry lied, unconvincingly. He had not been prepared for the question, he supposed. Still, he felt it did not excuse him for his transparency.

Jake stopped to regard him for a moment, and Harry slipped his arm into his sleeve. "Oh, that's odd. It looked more like a hand print for a moment there, are you sure you're —"

"Jacob! Get out round the front and help your father in the shop!" Mrs Stone said sharply, ushering her son from the room. "Now!"

Once her son had left the room, she turned back to Harry. "Can I get you anything to eat, dear? You look hungry." Harry opened his mouth to protest, and found it stuffed with a croissant. "How's school going? Lesson's going well? Mr Glass is a lovely man, isn't he? I met him just yesterday afternoon, and he tells me you're sitting on the same table as our Michael this year. I'm sure the two of you will become fast friends…"

Harry smiled slightly. He liked Mrs Stone. He had first met her when he'd bought a bread roll from their bakery after finding some change on the ground nearby, and it seemed to him that she'd decided to take his wellbeing on as his personal responsibility. Harry had found early on that she seemed to know most of the other women in their small town, including his aunt, and he suspected that she'd been telling other people to look after him, too. In a strange way, he felt like the town's child, being looked after by so many people. It gave him a feeling of warmth that he felt in his whole body, and even Aunt Petunia's cold baths and harsh labour couldn't take it away from him.

He appeared once a week in Mrs Stone's bakery to speak to her, sometimes more often if Aunt Petunia needed something, and when he did appear, she would talk and talk, not pausing to let him answer her questions. Harry didn't mind – he liked the company, and she always gave him something to eat. This odd gesture, often repeated by other townspeople, made Harry wonder if they knew he wasn't given enough food. They never questioned how he'd come by the odd bruises, but when they did appear, he thought that they coincided with more expensive prices when he was sent to the butchers with Aunt Petunia's money, and bread that looked like it was slightly stale.

"Anyway, my dear, you must tell your aunt that I saw you and send my greetings. I'm sure that I'll be seeing her later in the week at the neighbourhood watch meeting anyway. Enjoy your week, Harry, and I shall see you again next week, hmm?"

Harry smiled, and polished off the last of his scone, feeling the weight of another one in his pocket. "Thank you, Mrs Stone, you're very kind. I'll see you next Saturday." And with a cheerful wave, he slipped back out into the alleyway.

He walked swiftly down the street to the library. It stood tall just to the side of the town hall, its stone stairs going up to doors, which to Harry seemed very grand. Though Mrs Stone was friendly, and Mr Bones fascinating, Harry loved the library more than any other place in town. He lingered in front of it for a single moment, and then slipped inside, unaware of the pair of eyes watching him silently from across the street.

"Hello, Janie!" said Harry, a smile crossing his lips, and his voice a little too loud for the library. The young woman didn't seem to mind, and flashed Harry a bright smile in return.

"Well, if it isn't young Harry Potter, come to peruse our fine collection," she said, giving a mock curtsey when she reached him. Then, in one fluid movement, she bent down and swept him up into her arms. Harry startled and wrapped his arms around her neck tightly. She was the only person Harry knew who ever touched him in such a casual manner: Aunt Petunia grabbed and pinched, Uncle Vernon slapped and jabbed and hit, Dudley and his friends hit him sharply, Mr Montgomery pressed his hand to his shoulder when he had been hurt many a time, as did Ms Roberts, and once after a particularly nasty altercation with his aunt, his first teacher, Miss Hutchinson had pulled him into a tight hug, and when she broke away, Harry had realised she'd been crying.

No, it was only Janie who hugged him or held his hand, or picked him up and swung him around as she did now.

"Anyway, I've got you a present!" she said, carrying him over to the children's section of books, and putting him down on a chair.

She pulled a shelf back slightly from the wall, and stuck her hand behind it for a moment, wiggling her arm around until she pulled out a book. Her face was triumphant when she gave it to Harry. "It's called The Secret Garden. I read it when I was young too. It's really good, but someone tore the cover off when they borrowed it, so Mum says we can't lend it out any more, so you can keep it."

Harry looked up to her, wondering whether or not she realised he felt like crying. She swept him into another hug again, one way or the other, and Harry squeezed her back this time. "Anyway, I've got to dash, I'm afraid. I've got loads of homework already and it's only the first week back. I thought sixthform was supposed to be more relaxed! I hope you like the book, Harry." She gave his hand a squeeze, and as quickly as she'd come over, she was gone again.

"Goodbye, Mrs Thompson," Harry said, with a cheerful wave to the woman on the counter, when he left some time later on. "Thank you for letting me have the book." He held it up briefly so she could see which one he meant. She smiled kindly.

"You're welcome to it, for as long as you enjoy reading." Harry smiled, and wondered if that was a standard reply for librarians.

When he stepped back outside, the wind had picked up a little bit, and he held his prize close to his chest while he descended the stairs back onto the street. His day felt like it had flown past, as his Saturdays so often did. He felt a strange sensation when he reached the bottom, as if he were being watched, perhaps? He had read in books that characters sometimes knew when they were being watched, but he never believed it. Perhaps it was true, he wondered. He stared around him for a moment, but he couldn't see anyone nearby who might be watching him. Not that anyone would want to watch someone like him…

It was with a lightness in his step after such a friendly day that he began the walk back uphill to Privet Drive. He had never been more thankful for Aunt Petunia's advice to speak to strangers before – had he not taken it, he would not have so many friends in the town. The feeling of warmth was back, and the sharpness of the wind and the fear of the treatment he would receive at home did not dim it in any way.

* * *

On the other side of the road, Simon Glass stared at the small boy who seemed to be around every corner. He couldn't fathom why it was that everywhere he turned, Harry Potter appeared to already be there. In school, if something happened, it was bound to involve Harry, and now he had come to explore the new town he had moved to, only to find that very same boy wandering the streets alone, and leaving the library with what looked like a well-worn book.

He looked like he was almost happy, Simon reflected as he put his polystyrene cup into the nearest bin. And it seemed as if he had been there all day; he'd first caught sight of him towards the top of the town earlier that afternoon when he'd just arrived, and then just then leaving the library. What was it about that boy that appeared to be pulling him in?

He ran a hand through bedraggled hair, and resolved to come back the following week and see whether or not Harry's appearance was a regular thing.

* * *

It felt like an excruciatingly long week for Simon. Everything that happened in the classroom left him on edge, and every time Dudley so much as looked in Harry's direction, he was almost ready to throw himself across the classroom to prevent any harm coming to him. Another bruise appeared on Harry that he could see – a dark shape on the back of his neck, almost hidden by his hair for most of the time, but when he leant over to pick up crayons, his secret was given away. Simon felt sick and told himself that he was being stupid, that though Petunia might be a little neglectful of one of her two young charges, and that Dudley's favoured way to spend his time might be doing as much damage to Harry as possible, that did not mean that anyone other than Dudley had ever physically harmed him.

Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Simon. You really believe it.

He found himself staring out of the window across a sea of mothers picking up their children, watching Harry walk home alone, ignored by Mrs Dursley. Even when it began to rain, no one took Harry home, and he realised that he still didn't know where they lived, whether or not it was far that Harry was made to walk, or if it was just around the corner.

He sighed then, and slipped back into the classroom, once he was sure he was not going to be required to explain just how Grace fell down the stairs, or why he hadn't managed to stop Luke pushing Charlie over. After locking the classroom securely behind him, he wandered along to the staffroom, and sat down.

"You're looking energetic today," Margaret's sarcastic voice cut across the room, and he jumped slightly. He hadn't realised she was there.

"Not like you to remain in the school after hours," he said, raising an eyebrow. After two weeks, he came to understand the routines of others, and it happened that most people's routines involved a mad sprint through the front doors at three o'clock sharp. Margaret Hutchinson was no exception.

"No, it isn't, is it?" she said with a slight sigh. "So go on then. Tell me what's going on. Why've you been so on edge all week?"

Simon looked at her quizzically. "On edge? I've not been on edge this week."

She snorted faintly. "No, of course not, you've just been biting your nails and watching the playground almost obsessively all week because you're relaxed. What's going on, Glass?"

He sighed then, and ran a hand through his hair. "Harry."

"Potter?"

"The one and only," he muttered. "I'm worried about him."

Margaret watched him carefully. "You are not the only one to feel concern for his wellbeing."

He got to his feet then and began pacing the well-worn carpet back and forth. "I know that. I know that other people are worried for him, but I'm concerned that there's more to things that meets the eye."

"I don't think I understand you."

He sat down on the coffee table in front of her then, and watched her intently. "Why are other people worried for him?"

"Are you serious? Because for every day for two years we've watched his bully of a cousin beat him up, or beat up other children for doing so much as talking to him! Why do you think people are worried for him? He's practically a recluse, he's so scared to talk to other children for fear of punishment."

"And that's all you're worried about?" he asked her quietly.

She leapt to her feet. "That's _all_? Oh yes, that's all I'm worried about. Just a boy who's not allowed friends, who's hurt on a daily basis, who has to live with his tormentor, and whose guardians couldn't care less if his oaf cousin pulverises him for no good reason! That's _all_!"

He watched her again, waiting for her to calm down for long enough to listen to what he had to say. He was beginning to regret speaking to Margaret; she was a little hotheaded at the best of times, but when it came to Harry, she could be unusually sensitive, and he wasn't quite sure why. He had a few guesses going, but that was all they were: guesses.

"There was a bruise on his arm earlier this week. It was in the shape of a hand print. A man's hand print."

It was like watching a balloon slowly deflate, he would reflect later on. She just seemed to sink back into the too-hard chairs, and become flatter even. "You're sure?"

"Certain."

"It could be anything… it's not conclusive of anything."

"I know it's not but they're all so… so awful to him!" Simon said, leaping to his feet again and taking up pacing once more. "He clearly only gets given his cousin's old clothes, and it looks like he only gets fed once a week! His vile aunt described him as 'a nasty lying rat' or something to that effect and I saw him wandering around town on Saturday afternoon all day by himself… It's just so…

Margaret was on her feet then. She pressed a hand to his arm to stop him. "I know, believe me, I know. This is a serious accusation it sounds like you're levelling at the Dursleys here though, Simon. You can't just go running your mouth over things like this. You need to be careful, you could lose your job if you're wrong, and you accuse them outright! Just… just don't say anything about this to anyone else unless you can prove it."

"What if I got proof of it?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "I hope more than anything that you cannot get proof, for there is nothing truly to be proven, however should your fears be justified and you ever manage such a feat, then take your evidence to Ruth, though I suggest that you pass it through the rest of us first. Be warned though, she won't take anything less than absolutely concrete proof. I learnt that the hard way."

She gave him a rare smile, and then with a twirl of her coat, she was gone. It was only after Simon had watched her little red car pull out of the car park and drive away that he remembered that before him, and before Dennis, Margaret had been Harry's first teacher.

Perhaps she hadn't managed to find enough evidence to suggest that the Dursleys had hurt Harry, but if he ever saw anything suspicious on Harry again, he was going to make sure he got the proof himself. He refused to just stand by and let anyone hurt a child under his responsibility. He didn't care who they were.


	6. Just Jack

Chapter Six – Just Jack

Simon stared wistfully out at the miserable October skies, wondering when the last of summer had passed them by, and how he'd missed it. It was probably going to rain until June now, he thought sullenly. The children were pulling their bags onto shoulders and wrapping themselves in the raincoats that worried mothers had provided. It was three o'clock. Again. He lived for this time of day – when the children would disappear, and he could run from the school unseen, and slink back home.

It had been a few weeks since he'd last spoken to Margaret about Harry, and his fears concerning his home. Nothing had changed; there had been the odd bruise on Harry, and he was as thin and uncertain of himself as ever. Or at least, he was uncertain of himself around most people. Simon could name a few members of staff with whom he'd seen Harry behave in a manner that was practically friendly, if he thought back slightly. Nothing had come to his attention that appeared dire, however, so he remained vigilant (and paranoid, a little voice in his head told him) at all times.

"Mr Glass," a quiet voice said, pulling him out of his reverie. He looked down to see the object of his troubled thoughts staring up at him with bright wary eyes. "This is for you."

A Halloween painting was pressed into his hands – a mess of orange and black, possibly discernible as a cat and a pumpkin if you looked at it with a squint – and then the boy was gone. Simon smiled ruefully down at it and slipped it into a desk drawer with other such gifts from the children. They were mostly from Harry. Most of the time, the children gave their paintings and projects to their parents, but knowing what Harry had for a family… well, he wasn't surprised when he was given paintings, or when there was a small house made of icecream sticks sitting on Jackie's desk.

He looked out to the playground. It was empty, but for Harry walking across it alone, his head bowed against the wind and the rain. He felt an unexpected pang somewhere in his chest, and before he had decided what he was doing, he'd grabbed his coat from the staffroom and was running after him.

When he reached the road at the top of the playground, he stopped to catch his already short breath. Harry was to be seen a little way down the street, wrapping an insufficient jacket more tightly around himself, but not too far away. Simon frowned at himself – the original plan had been to go after him and give him a lift home (perhaps not strictly allowed, but it was Harry – his family would probably send him flowers if he kidnapped their nephew) but now he wasn't so sure. He'd not got into his car for one thing. He did want to see where Harry lived though, and to make sure that he got home safely.

So he followed, at a distance long enough not to arouse the suspicions of a young child, but short enough to follow him if he took some sudden twists and turns in the town that was still unfamiliar to him.

After around ten minutes of walking through the unrelenting rain, he began to wish he'd brought his umbrella. He was soaked to the skin, and he was sure that Harry would be, too. Shaking fingers pulled his jacket more closely around himself, and he wished silently for a reprieve.

After twenty-five minutes of walking, he desperately wished that he'd brought the car. It was going to take him the same amount of time to get back to the school to pick up the car, and another ten minutes on top of that to drive back home. Just as he was beginning to lose in hope in Harry living anywhere near the school, he took a turn to his right, and entered a seemingly labyrinthine estate of houses. It seemed to stretch on forever, and Simon almost hit his head in exasperation on the nearest lamppost. He followed him through Daisy Close, Bluebell Street, and across Conifer Green, before Magnolia Crescent, and finally Privet Drive.

Simon slowed, realising that in front of him, Harry was doing the same. They stopped in front of one of the many houses; they all looked so similar to Simon that he doubted he would be able to recognise it again, if he didn't make note of it. Harry froze, staring in at the house, his fingers never lifting the latch on the gate, and behind him, Simon was standing inconspicuously around the corner of the house, able to see Harry through the hedge, but quite sure Harry couldn't see him. The boy was finally beginning to show signs of preferring dryness over saturated freedom when the front door was flung open.

"And what time do you call _this_?" Mrs Dursley asked sharply, seizing her nephew by the scruff of his neck, and dragging him towards the house. She stopped suddenly before they reached the door, and she pulled him to the side, towards the hedge Simon had utilised as his hiding place. He held his breath, knowing that she would see any movement from here, though he couldn't clearly make out any detail on the two on the other side, he hoped that they couldn't see him at all.

She pushed her nephew onto his knees before her, and pointed at the small border of flowers in front of him. "You call that weeding, do you, boy? A rat could have done better work than that."

"I—I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia," said Harry quietly, his tone perfectly even and neutral. Even so, Simon could see even through the hedge that he was shaking ever so slightly. "I'll finish it now."

"Absolutely not! What would the neighbours think? You'll do it when I tell you to. No dinner tonight for your impertinence." She tacked the last part onto her speech as if it were merely an afterthought.

Then they were both on their feet, Harry being dragged once again, and in moments they were inside the house. The door slammed harshly in the street, and then Simon was alone again.

It felt like something cold was settling in his chest, and he suspected that it had nothing to do with being out in the wet for longer than half an hour. He swallowed hard, and squeezed his hands into tight fists before releasing them. What kind of people made a seven-year-old boy do their gardening and withheld meals if it wasn't to their standard afterwards?

His fingers shook when he put his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He told himself it was because of the cold. It probably was. "Hello, Jack? It's me. Yeah, I've got a bit lost in town and I was hoping you could come and find me and pick me up?" He ran a hand through cold, wet hair, and there was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm at Privet Drive. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it. Thank you."

* * *

"So what exactly are we doing again?"

Simon gave his brother a sharp look, and pulled the front door closed sharply, locking it quickly. "You know, Jack, there are times when I wonder how you manage to find your way to work on a morning, you're so forgetful… oh no, wait… you don't work, do you?"

"Hilarious! Though I think we'd better get along to A and E now, because I think my sides are splitting…" Jack looked down in mock horror at his middle, and pretended to hold himself together. It was an act he'd been doing since they were children, and Simon had thought it irritating then. "Also, I'm a student. I think you'll find that's an occupation in itself. Still, I'm not the one who stalks children, but doesn't leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that he can find his way back to his car, am I?"

Simon narrowed his eyes dangerously, but didn't retaliate. Jack had been good enough to come and pick him up in the middle of a mass of housing at the drop of a hat. The gate clicked shut behind them, and Jack jogged to catch up to his brother again.

"You never answered the question. What are we doing again?"

Simon sighed, and resisted the urge to tell Jack he'd changed his mind, and that he didn't want to go into town, didn't want to look for his student, and really didn't want his company. For the last few years, most of the things they did together dissolved into fights, but things were different now. They were different. And the change in scenery seemed to be doing them both a world of good.

"We're stalking children, and you're here so that I can get home, if the birds eat the breadcrumbs I leave behind."

"Uh, what?" Jack raised an eyebrow slightly, stuffing his hands into pockets to keep them warm. His sandy hair blew about his face, and he had to keep pulling his hands free to brush it away. "Oh, Christ, that was my eye!"

"Get a haircut then—"

"Oh my God, you sound like Dad now! You do remember that you're only six years older than me, don't you?" Jack looked vaguely horrified. He nearly tripped over his own feet on the uneven pavement, so busy was he being horrified.

"Someone has to keep you in line," Simon muttered grimly. "Anyway, before you interrupted, I was going to say that I am semi-serious. We are going into town, because I need to see if Harry's wandering around on his own again."

Jack blew an errant lock away from his eyes, and frowned. "But why? He's not your son. You're not actually responsible for him when he's not in the school, you know."

Simon sighed, and pulled his jacket closed. "I know that, but I can't shake the feeling that something's badly wrong in his life, and it's driving me mad. How can I just leave him with the monsters he's living with, in good conscience, just because he's not my responsibility right now?"

"Have you phoned social services?"

Simon glanced at his brother. That had sounded like a serious question. About a serious topic. One which had nothing to do with Jack. But he seemed to care anyway. How very unlikely, he thought. "Yes, yesterday night when I got back—"

"—when I _drove_ you back—" muttered Jack under his breath.

"—but I've looked in the school records… it says that social services have been made aware of him before, a couple of years ago, but it doesn't look like anything happened about it."

Jack frowned then. "Maybe there wasn't anything to find." He held up a hand to stop his brother from speaking further. "Look, from what little you've said, it doesn't sound like there's anything definitely wrong with this kid's life. His family might not really care about him, but that isn't to say his home's so bad that—"

"—Yesterday I'd followed him to his house, and before you came to pick me up, his aunt pushed him into the mud and told him that his weeding of the garden hadn't been good enough, and so he wasn't to eat dinner that day." Simon stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. "How can you say that his home isn't that bad? You've not seen him! Harry's a bag of bones. They probably never feed him!"

Simon stopped and pressed his hands to his head fiercely, leaning back heavily on the wall behind him. Jack stared at him, not knowing what to do or what to say. He couldn't remember a time when he'd seen his big brother this worked up; he'd always been the strong one. The one with all the answers. He could understand, in theory, why it was that Simon was becoming distressed, but at the same time, Harry seemed like an abstract idea to him. Just something that Simon was upset over, but when he left him, he could forget that somewhere there was a boy living in misery. Or he would be able to, if he didn't suspect that now he was in on this, Simon was going to be phoning him constantly so he could pass along his stress.

He pressed a hand to his brother's shoulder then, and didn't let go. "Look, if it means so much to you, that this kid's not living in misery, then we need to go see him, and see if he's just wandering around town today on his own. And if he is, then best case scenario is that his crappy family are negligent, and we can keep a closer eye on them, until they do something that we can have him taken out of their care for. Yeah?"

Simon smiled at the floor; the first-person plural pronoun hadn't been lost on him. It was clear that Jack was casually including himself, and it meant a lot that his little brother was in on this. Especially since, by all accounts, Jack had done nothing at all since he'd begun university nearly a year ago. It would be good for him to be involved in something that wasn't about him.

"Come on then, let's go."

The town was as busy as he'd remembered it being the previous week. Finding Harry in the throng of people wasn't going to be particularly easy, he knew that now. It was a rare day of sunshine in an otherwise wet season, and the townspeople were clearly taking advantage of this. Around him, people milled and moved from shop to shop.

"Huh, I didn't think that the town would be this big really. It's only a small place," Jack said, glancing around. "I also didn't suspect that the whole town would turn out en masse for my simple presence."

He turned a bright smile on Simon. "Hey! Do you know what we should do?"

"Enlighten me," Simon sighed.

"Burgle!" A few people turned slightly disturbed gazes to them at that sudden outburst. "Think about it," he said, lowering his voice, "they're all here. The town is at our mercy, and you do need a new TV. That one you've got now is rubbish."

Simon snorted, pulling Jack after him across the street. "Yeah, because we're both really hard up at the moment, aren't we?"

"So you admit that you could easily buy a new TV and yet, that dinosaur sits in your lounge… Tragic really." Jack smirked, and glanced around the street. The chances of them finding one lone boy really was slim. "So were you going to give me a description of the boy or were you going to just let me guess that I'd found him?"

"Oh, you'll know when you see him. He's only got one leg, and no hair…"

"Really?!" Jack gasped, no wonder Simon had taken pity on the poor child.

Simon laughed outright at the expression on Jack's face. "No, not really. He's seven, but he looks more like five. He's got black hair that's almost as long as yours, and the clothes he's wearing are probably going to be giant hand-me-downs from his elephantine cousin. Oh, and he's got the most curious scar on his forehead. I've only seen it a couple of times because his hair covers it mostly, but it's shaped like a lightning bolt."

"Are you lying again?" Jack asked. Simon shook his head. "So someone's carved a lightning bolt into his face??"

Simon turned to him shocked. "I seriously doubt it. Jackie says that he got it in the car crash that killed his parents when he was a baby."

They moved down the street slowly, neither of them noticing the sharp look given to them by an old lady standing outside the town's deserted bookshop. In fact, neither of them noticed the bookshop either, though Simon was vaguely aware that there was some kind of shop in his peripheral vision, he never looked directly at it. He didn't know that he couldn't look directly at it, even if he wanted to. It would have ended his day in the town a little more swiftly had he been able to; inside the small shop, Harry Potter stared out at the street, and blinked slightly when his teacher walked past.

"So tell me how things are going at home, young one," Mr Bones said kindly, offering him a glass of some kind of juice. Harry never really could tell what it was, but when he wasn't thinking too hard, sometimes he'd realise it was made of pumpkin, before the idea was whisked from his mind.

Harry smiled and went to sit next to the counter. It was more often that Mr Bones asked after school, but he complied when he asked to hear of other things. It felt nice to tell someone all about the madness of his home sometimes, even though it would never do him any real good.

"Ah, Arabella! Come in!" Mr Bones called over Harry's head.

Harry turned around. "Good afternoon, Mrs Figg," he said with a cheerful smile. She gave him a thin smile, and then shot a glare over to Mr Bones when he had turned back to the shop's owner.

"Hello, Harry. You're a little far from home today. Is your aunt in the town?" she asked.

"No, Mrs Figg. She's at home today, so she told me I was to make myself scarce for the day so her family can have dinner in peace," he answered, not fully understanding why his words caused looks of such consternation to pass over their faces.

"And when will _you _have dinner?" Mr Bones asked, not unkindly, but with a strange intensity in his gaze that Harry only ever glimpsed in him during their conversations.

"Oh," Harry said, feeling his cheeks pinken slightly when he realised what exactly he'd said. Clearly, he was going to have to watch his words from now on; it wouldn't do, said a voice that sounded like his aunt in his head, for the neighbours to pry into their business. "I'll have something when I get home later on. I like exploring on Sundays."

"We know that you do," Mrs Figg said with a strange note to her tone, but Harry wasn't sure quite what she meant by it.

However, before he was required to answer, a tall, straight man, dressed all in black walked into the shop. His hair was tall, straight and black also, and Harry thought that, in some strange way he couldn't quite describe, he seemed powerful.

"Why don't you run along, young one, and we'll talk again soon." Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Harry slipped from his stool, not daring to look up at the stranger uninvited, and when he glanced back at the door, Mr Bones was piling books onto the counter for the man. He waved goodbye, and received a kind smile in return.

The sun nearly blinded him when he stepped into the street, and he wandered along towards the bakery, in hope of some food. When he got there, he saw a man sitting on a bench, looking around the square they were in. Harry didn't think he'd seen this man before, and remembering his aunt's advice to always speak to strangers, he sat down gingerly next to him, and offered a tentative smile.

"Why hello there, who might you be?" the man asked with a smile.

"I'm Harry Potter. If you don't mind my asking, who are you, sir? I don't think I've seen you here before."

Shocked slightly by the politeness offered to him by this young boy, and more so by the knowledge that this was the child they were seeking, there was a moment in which he merely stared at the child, until Harry turned his bright green eyes away. "My name's Jack Glass, and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Potter."

Harry smiled brightly at this formal way of address, and then frowned faintly. "My teacher at school is called Mr Glass," he said quietly, "and I thought I'd seen him earlier on."

"Is he now? I think that man might be my brother, Simon. He's in the bakery buying some lunch for us," he motioned to the bakery with a casual wave of his hand, nearly hitting a man behind him in the face.

Harry's mouth formed an O of surprise. "He's called Simon? So when I've heard the teachers at school say 'Simon's being an idiot again' then they're talking about him?" he asked, biting his bottom lip slightly.

"Ah no, I'm sure they'd never say that kind of thing about another teacher," Jack said quickly, glancing at the bakery and hoping that Simon would come back soon. He wasn't suited to talking to children.

Harry frowned again at that. "Oh, that must mean that they're talking about other students then. That's probably worse really, isn't it? I wonder if they ever say things about me."

Jack floundered then, and grasped at the only thing to say that he could think of. "Do you enjoy school then, Harry?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes, it's not very nice and I have to stay outside and Dudley's there, but sometimes I'm allowed to stay inside in the library and I can read whatever I want," he said, smiling brightly.

Jack smiled back, processing everything he'd just said. "Who's Dudley?"

Harry frowned slightly again, angry with himself. He'd only just told himself that he was going to be careful with what he said, and there he was telling people he didn't even know yet all about his life at home. 'Some things stay behind closed doors,' his aunt had said, and though he hadn't understood properly, he suspected it had to do with him pretending that theirs was a happy home, so that the neighbours would think that they were normal. After all, it wasn't their fault that they were stuck with a freak like Harry to look after, was it?

"Harry?"

"He's just my cousin," Harry told him quietly.

"Do you live with him?" Jack asked, and Harry didn't seem to think it was a strange question to ask, when he told him that he did live with him. He sensed that Harry would close up if he started to ask too much about his family, which in itself was probably not a good thing. "Do you live far away then?"

Harry shrugged at that. "Not really, just up the street. Privet Drive. Do you know it?"

Jack frowned. So it _was _his that he'd picked Simon up from yesterday. "Yes, I know a little of it. How did you get here today then? Have you come here with your family?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I always walk into the town on my own on Sunday. I like to walk around and meet people – my aunt always told me it was a good thing to speak to strangers. And it is, because I've met you today." He smiled brightly again then.

Jack felt something twist inside him at that. He'd walked there, all by himself. It was maybe half a mile from Simon's house to the town, but from where Harry lived, it was probably more like a mile and a half. Maybe even two. And he walked there on his own, every Sunday? And his family didn't care, maybe even encouraged it, and encouraged him to speak to people he didn't know. He felt slightly ill.

"Hello, Mr Glass," Harry piped up brightly from next to him.

Jack spun around so quickly, he wondered for a brief moment if he'd done some serious injury to his neck. Behind him, his brother had a small bag in one arm, hopefully filled with lots of sweet, chocolatey things which might cheer him up a little.

"Hello, Harry. How lovely to see you," he smiled, and turned to Jack. "Hello, Jack."

From the look his brother was giving him, Jack reasoned that the desolation he was feeling had made its way onto his face.

"Have you eaten yet?" Simon was asking Harry, but Jack felt strangely detached, and wasn't paying attention to what was being said.

"Are you all right, Mr Jack?" Harry asked quietly.

He snorted then. "Just 'Jack' will be fine, thanks."

"Okay, are you all right Mr Just Jack?" Harry asked him innocently, but when Jack looked at him, he saw the faint smile at the corners of his mouth, and the slight challenge in his eyes.

He laughed brightly then, and jumped to his feet. "Come on, kid, come and have some lunch with us in the park. We've got plenty to share."

With that, Jack jumped to his feet, and held out a hand to Harry in an over-exaggerated invitation. Harry smiled slightly, and put his hand into Jack's.

Simon smiled. Somehow, things had worked out a little better than he'd hoped by coming here today. He would never have guessed that his brother would somehow end up talking to the very child they were here to check up on. Nor would he suspect that the two of them would get on so well, or that Jack had a heart in him somewhere. He watched the two of them walking ahead of him, Jack was wittering on about something, but Harry didn't seem to mind, and apart from the puzzled looks he gave him every now and again, he seemed perfectly content.

"Here, this one's for you, Har," Jack said, passing the youngest of their strange trio a sausage roll, and telling him to eat it whilst it was still hot in the middle.

They ate in near silence for a few minutes, broken only when Jack tried to inhale some of the pastry he was eating, and Harry surprised them all, including himself, by laughing aloud.

When the laughter had died out, Harry resumed staring into space, and picking carefully at the doughnut he'd been given. Simon could see something was bothering him, and decided to speed the process along somewhat.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

The boy looked down at his hands. He took a deep breath, appearing to be steeling himself for something, and then turned his gaze onto them. "It's just that…" he began slowly, and he had to stop to take another deep breath. "I just don't understand why you've been so nice to me today… and earlier, you held my hand," he said, turning to Jack, whose face promptly twisted into an odd expression caught between heartbreak and desperation, "and I just don't know. I don't understand you."

Simon looked at Jack, who was now opening and shutting his mouth like a fish, and the weird cross-expression hadn't left his face yet. Then he turned to Harry, whose eyes were staring determinedly down at the ground. He knelt before the young boy, ignoring his brother as thoroughly as he was able.

"Harry, why wouldn't we be kind to you? You were hungry, and we had food. Why wouldn't we share it?" he asked quietly.

Harry merely stared at the ground, blinking furiously.

"Okay, well if you had food and someone else were hungry, would you have shared it?"

The effect was instantaneous. Harry looked up sharply, his mouth falling open slightly and answered, "Of course!"

"Why then, wouldn't we share our food with you, if you would share any you had with us?" Simon asked quietly.

"I don't know," Harry answered quietly. "But at home…"

Simon held his breath. This felt like something momentous to him; Harry never spoke of home, and never spoke of starvation… this felt strangely like the two coming together. And suddenly, he was oddly certain that Jack would ruin it somehow.

"At home," Harry began again, "my relatives have lots of food, and they never give me any of my own. I'm only allowed what they don't eat themselves."

Next to him, Jack made a strange strangled sound, and Simon gave him a look so sharp, Jack almost checked to see if he was bleeding somewhere.

"But I know that if I had lots of food, and I knew that they were hungry, I'd give all of it to them, because they're my family, and I love them." His voice was growing softer now. "So I just don't understand why it is that they won't give me anything. I don't really expect them to anymore, though. Even if they didn't give me actual things though, like food, and a bed, it would be nice if sometimes…"

He broke off then, and sighed slightly at his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. Simon pressed his hands over Harry's small ones, and he saw Harry smile ever so slightly.

"It would just be nice if sometimes, they could pretend for a while that they liked me. That I was worth something, and that they'd sit with me, and not say anything. They didn't have to say anything. Just not tell me to leave. Even though I am a worthless, little freak, who'll probably just get myself killed being foolish like my parents."

"Oh, God. Harry," Simon muttered, and without thinking what he was doing, he pulled the small child into his arms, and held him tightly. The small form was shaking slightly, and his arms tightened instinctively around him. "Don't ever believe that. You're not worthless. Not at all."

He felt the shaking begin to abate, and eventually Harry twisted in his arms and looked up at him, eyes swimming with tears, but not one dared to fall. And then the moment broke, and Harry pulled out of his arms, only to stand in front of him, biting his lip again.

"Harry? It's okay, I…"

"No, it's not okay!" Harry cried, biting his lip so hard that it drew blood. He could taste its metallic sharpness in his mouth, and blinked again furiously for a moment, until his vision had cleared. "I… I've said too much."

And then, suddenly, he was running. As fast and as far as he could from them. Running until his chest hurt, and his legs ached and begged for reprieve. Only then did he stop, but when he turned around, neither of them had given chase, and he sank to the ground at the base of a tall tree. His arms wrapped around himself, and he closed his eyes, never letting his tears fall.

Far behind him, Simon watched the tiny figure running away from them, until he could no longer see him through the park. Tendrils of regret and sadness were wrapping around him, and he wasn't sure how to escape. He sank down onto the bench next to Jack, unseeing for several minutes, until there was some kind of crash behind them, and their reveries were broken.

"Well, I'd've bet any money that I was going to muck all that up for you," Jack said finally, his voice a little more hoarse than he'd have liked it to be.

Simon snorted faintly. "Yeah, me too."

Jack shot him an outraged look, but it melted almost as soon as it had come. "Come on, let's go back to yours and have a drink."

Instead of the reproving look he'd expected, Simon merely nodded, and wearily got to his feet. "Yeah, I think I need one. Let's go home."


	7. Friends

Chapter Seven

For the next few weeks, it seemed to Simon as if Harry was doing his utmost to avoid him. In the classroom, Harry kept his eyes carefully averted, unless the situation called for direct eye contact for politeness' sake. Even when called upon separately after school or during lunchtime to check his wellbeing, Simon could not elicit more than a few mumbled assurances that he was in good health. It was no easy task – bringing Harry back out of his shell – but he did the best he could. He just hoped that it would be good enough.

"And so what are you going to do with yourself this evening?" Jackie asked, her voice floating along the corridor to Simon.

"I want to go to the library and see Janie," replied a voice, which he recognised instantly as Harry's, "and maybe if I'm lucky then I'll be allowed to borrow a book." This last part was said in an excited near-whisper, a sign that Simon had come to recognise as excitement from the young boy. He stopped and listened with a smile. It was rare for him to hear Harry unguarded, but he got on well with many members of staff. He felt it was a shame that he was not one of them.

"That would be lovely, wouldn't it? I know how much you enjoy reading, Harry," he could hear Jackie saying. "And how will you get into town?" Now, he could hear the wariness in her voice, and for a moment wondered whether or not Harry could detect it as well.

Around the corner, Harry frowned slightly at the slight change in her voice and wondered what it meant. "I'll probably walk down after school," he confided. "It's not very far."

Harry shrugged slightly – it would only take half an hour or so for him to walk there from school, but from the expression on Mrs Roberts face, that was perhaps a little too long for most people.

"It's good to walk lots, isn't it? Mr Glass said that walking is good exercise," Harry added quickly. Around the corner Simon smiled despite himself, and Jackie made a sound of disapproval.

"Of course, but I think perhaps you're walking a little too far by yourself," Jackie said to him. "Maybe Mr Glass or I could drive you into the town centre if that's what you want, and we could go to the library with you. Young boys shouldn't be walking around the town by themselves. It's not safe."

Simon took that as his cue to appear from around the corner. "I'll be happy to go with you, Harry." He wondered how long Jackie had known he was there.

Instantly, Harry's eyes dropped to the floor, and he began biting his lip nervously. "Maybe I won't go tonight then if you don't think it's safe. I'll wait until the weekend and then I won't be on my own," Harry said quietly, looking up at them sharply as he said this, and glancing between them both. "I don't want to be any trouble. Thank you, though."

And then he was gone, running through the school in that strange sudden fleeing manner the teachers had come to associate with him.

"What on earth is going on, Simon?" Jackie asked impatiently, "Why is he avoiding you? What have you done?"

Simon sighed and ran a hand roughly through his hair. "Look, it's complicated! I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise, but right now, I think I should go after him. He's going to go into town, I'm sure of it."

As she watched Simon running away from her and out to the car park, she wondered why it was that recently, people seemed to leave her at speed.

Harry reflected, once he was halfway to town, that he had run quite far without stopping. Usually it took him far longer to reach this area, and he stopped to let himself rest. He had been surprised when neither the school's secretary nor his teacher had responded to the lie he had told. He felt the strange tingly feeling in his scalp that he always got when he lied, or when someone else told one. Hadn't they felt it, too? Clearly, this was something which needed investigating.

With this in mind, he began to run again – his short break having been enough to let him run all the way into the town without stopping.

"Hello, Harry!" Janie said brightly when he arrived at the library. She had been re-shelving books, and appeared pleased for the reprieve. "How are you? Did you enjoy The Secret Garden?"

"Very much, thank you," he replied, smiling broadly. "And I'm okay today, how are you?"

He looked around the library, and felt the same calm feeling that he rarely experienced anywhere else. It was a feeling of safety, he would reflect in later years, that was lacking in the vast majority of his world. He knew that the Dursleys scorned the library, and by extension, those who worked there or dared to read for pleasure, which made it his secret joy. He had also never seen his family near or even mention the name of the other old bookshop in which Mr Bones worked up the street, and so it was another haven for him. The only other place in which he felt the same calmness was his cupboard in the dead of night – when he knew that the Dursleys were all in bed asleep and wouldn't bother him. Then, he knew he was safe, and untouchable. Only then, would he relax and allow himself to be calm.

Janie had been talking ceaselessly since he'd asked her about her day, and Harry felt badly for not listening fully, though he loved the library, and the large dusty shelves usually took the majority of his attention. She smiled and looked to him.

"You seem distracted today, why don't I show you some of the new books we've got in?" She took hold of his hand and led him into the familiar territory of the children's section. "You might enjoy this. It's a new edition of The Hobbit, though I read it when I was a lot older than you are now, you still might find it enjoyable." She pressed it into his hands, and Harry smiled again.

"Anyway, I'd love to stay around and chat, but I've got so much to be doing around here that I really ought to get back to work." She glanced at her mother, sitting behind the librarian's desk, and in return received an expectant look. "I'll come and speak to you soon, though."

Mrs Thompson turned her glare away from her daughter, when she saw she was getting back to work, and watched young Harry Potter disappear into the myriad of shelves around him. Though it was always lovely to see a young child so absorbed in literature, she didn't like the circumstances surrounding why he was this way. A woman hidden behind a stack of books appeared before her, and all thought of the young boy was struck from her thoughts.

Once he was sure he was on his own, Harry smiled contentedly and clutched the book in his hands closer to his chest. The library would be closing very shortly – most of the other people were making their way to the desk. This was his favourite time in the library, when everyone else was leaving, and he could pretend that all this was his domain.

It felt like a long time to him, but Harry was sure it had not been that long when the lights at the far end of the library went out. The library was closed. He snapped his book shut, wondering how he had become so absorbed in its pages so quickly, and slipped further down in his seat.

If only he could live in the library, and spend all his time here surrounded by comforting literature. If only!

And then, with reflexes few would ever have, he darted behind one of the larger bookshelves and squeezed into a small cranny in the corner of the room, which he suspected only he knew about.

"Harry?" Janie's voice echoed through the silent room, and he did not answer. "I think he must have left, Mum."

And then she was gone, too, leaving Harry curled up snugly in his hiding place, The Hobbit pressed against his chest, and a slight smile on his lips. Tonight, if never again, the library would be all his.

Little did he know, that outside, one man was nearly running down the street to ruin his dreams.

"Excuse me! Excuse me, madam."

Mrs Thompson turned to address the flustered man approaching. "I apologise, sir, but the library is closed for today," she said briskly, "but we reopen at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."

"It's not that, but I think a young boy may still be inside the building. I saw him go in not so long since, and he never came out," Simon explained, still gasping for breath from his short run down the street.

She gave him a sceptical glance. "You have been following this child? I must say, sir, that it seems rather unseemly of you to be following a young boy around the town!"

Simon winced at the volume of her voice, and hoped that people weren't beginning to stare. "I apologise, but his name is Harry Potter. He's a student of mine – I teach at the primary school up the road, and I'm worried about him. He mentioned coming here alone after school finished, and I wanted to make sure he got here safely." He said all this in a rush of breath, and though her sceptical expression never wavered, he thought he saw something in her gaze alter when he mentioned the name of his young charge.

"Harry Potter, you say?" she said quietly. "It is possible that he has escaped without your notice – he has been known to evade even the most observant of us, but to be sure, accompany me inside, and we shall check once more for him."

He felt flooded with gratitude for this woman, and he smiled and thanked her profusely for this small favour.

"Do not thank me yet, for he may yet not be here, and be sure that it is not for you that I do this, but for myself," she explained, re-opening the large double doors. "After all, if anything were to happen to him locked inside, the bureaucracy rather than the guilt might kill me."

Inside it was as dark and as still as if no one had set foot there in years, let alone a mere few minutes.

"Hello, Harry? Are you in here?" Simon called out into the silence.

Mrs Thompson took his arm, and silently lead him through the library towards the children's section. Here also, the room was still, though Simon wondered whether or not it was all in his mind that he was suddenly certain that Harry was there.

"Harry? Are you here?" Mrs Thompson called this time.

"You can't stay here all night, Harry," Simon said clearly. "What would you do if there was a fire, or if something else happened? Who would protect you?"

He thought he heard something to one side then, and Simon hurried over to the far corner of the library. "Harry? Please?"

Simon sighed with relief when he saw a familiar pair of bright green eyes staring up at him from the dusty floor. He smiled faintly and bent down to pick him up. "Oh Harry, child, what are you doing in here alone?"

Harry stared down at his ragged trainers, clutching his book as if it were a lifeline, but did not answer.

"Oh, you've found him!" Mrs Thompson cried from nearby. "Harry Potter! What were you thinking of, trying to stay in here after hours! Anything could have happened to you! Imagine how I'd feel coming in tomorrow to find that something awful had happened to you in the night, and no one had been here to help you! Don't you ever try anything like this ever again, you hear me?"

Harry bit his lip, and kept his eyes glued to the floor. Even in the gloom, Simon could see the shame in his face. "I won't, Mrs Thompson. I promise."

"I should hope so!" she cried. Turning to face Simon, she said, "I don't know how to thank you enough, sir. I can't stop thinking about all the awful things that could have happened here tonight, if only you hadn't been here."

"Any time, madam, and don't worry any further. I'll make sure he gets home all right," Simon said, pressing a firm hand to Harry's shoulder.

"Thank you, Mr - ?"

"Simon Glass, madam."

"Thank you, Mr Glass," she said, giving him a rare smile, and offering her hand. "Amelia Thompson, and if there's anything I can ever do for you, please call."

With that, Harry found himself being steered from his safe haven and out into the bright street outside. Mr Glass steered him up the street, to a car he vaguely recognised as being usually in the school car park.

"I'll give you a lift home," Simon said, opening the passenger door for Harry. The boy obediently got inside, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.

The drive was one of quiet reflection, for both parties, and when they arrived in Privet Drive, Simon was careful to park a little further down the street so that Mrs Dursley would not see them sitting in the car together.

"Now, please tell me why you were trying to stay in the library after hours."

Harry swallowed and began to chew his lip thoughtfully; uncertain as to whether or not he should stretch the truth a little. He looked up to Mr Glass, meeting his eyes briefly. "I like the library. It's comfortable, and quiet, and I feel safe there."

"But it might not be safe in there alone at night," Simon said quietly. "If there had been an accident, no one would have known you were in there. No one would have known there was anyone in there to save if a fire had broken out. And I'm sure your relatives would worry if you didn't return home in the evening."

He thought he heard a snort of disbelief from the boy then, but dismissed it as his own thoughts. "I like the library at night. It's like my own world," Harry said quietly, his eyes not quite in the same time. "I can be anyone I want there."

A thought struck Simon then, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before he opened them. "Harry, please answer me truthfully now. Have you stayed in the library over night before?"

A long silence. Then a soft whisper. "Yes."

"Have you ever stayed inside the school at night before?"

"No, you stopped me," Harry whispered. Simon's mind cast back to the time he'd found Harry in the school library after three o'clock, and he felt something twist uncomfortably inside him.

"Please," Simon said urgently, his voice dropping to a near whisper like Harry's. "Please tell me why you don't want to go home at night. Tell me what's wrong, so that I can help you."

An odd bitterness washed over Harry's face then, and Simon was sure that he'd never seen anything like it on the face of anyone so young before. "There is nothing you can do to help me."

"Let me try!" Simon begged, feeling desperation wash over him. He couldn't let this opportunity escape him. He had to help Harry somehow, whatever it took, and this was just more proof that not all was well in the Dursley household.

Harry looked up at him with what could only be a wary hope in his eyes, but doubt on his face. No one had ever been able to help him before, no matter how much they claimed to have wanted to, and he was loathe to believe that this man could make a difference. Nevertheless, he saw little harm in letting him try, and though Harry knew not to get his hopes up anymore, it was hard not to.

Seeing the mistrust in his student, Simon sighed. "Let's just be friends, okay?"

Harry nodded, smiling slightly.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but anything you do tell me can be a secret between us, yeah? And if things aren't very nice for you at home, then I'll try to help you, but you need to talk to me." Simon stared at Harry, who stared back, and he felt it was a little like being x-rayed.

"Okay, thank you." Harry's voice was quiet, even in the stillness of the street. "Friends?"

"Friends," said Simon, taking Harry's small offered hand in his, and pressing it gently.

They both jumped when a shrill shriek filled the air from further down the street, and Simon recognised the sound as Mrs Dursley. She was waiting for Harry. The boy's face looked as though it had lost some of its colour, and when their eyes met again, Simon wondered if the hope had been drained as well.

"I've got to go."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

The car door slammed, and soft footsteps raced down the street.

"Where have you been? What time do you call this? Making me shout in the street for you like some kind of hooligan!"

Simon wished he could shut his ears, but instead he started the car, and drove back home, with only one backwards glance at Harry.

"Get inside now!" Aunt Petunia snapped, pinching his ear harder than usual. Harry winced and ran into the house. Curtains twitched behind them, but Petunia paid no heed, not this time.

"So why are you late?" she demanded, once the door had shut fully behind her. "Have you been telling vile lies to that teacher of yours again?"

"No, Aunt Petunia," he whispered, keeping his eyes on the thick carpet beneath his feet.

"You see that you don't, wastrel," she snapped. "Now take off those filthy shoes, and get inside your cupboard until this evening. I don't want to hear a peep from you until I summon you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

The lock on the cupboard clicked shut behind him, but Harry didn't mind. He still had hold of his book, and he was very thankful that Aunt Petunia hadn't decided to search him on a whim. The cupboard lit up gently when he entered, the light perfect for reading, and hours passed before he felt his stomach begin to growl again.

Without warning, the cupboard door swung open, and Harry dived to hide his book from view, but it was too late.

"MUUUUUM!" Dudley screeched. "Muuum! Harry's got something!"

Aunt Petunia appeared behind Dudley as if she could be called instantly to his side by saying her name. She reached into the cupboard and snatched the book from Harry's tight grip.

"A book," she said softly, turning it over in her hands. Then she turned to him. "Our provisions aren't good enough for you boy, so you've taken to stealing things to occupy your time. Do you think you're better than us, boy, with your _literature_?"

Harry closed his eyes. This could not be happening. He opened his eyes. Uncle Vernon was standing behind Aunt Petunia now. This had to be some kind of bad dream.

"Answer me, boy!"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He had no idea what he could possibly say that would ensure the safety of the book his aunt held in her hands. It had been lent to him kindly by Janie, and now he'd never be allowed another library book again.

A sharp slap was delivered across the side of his face, and Harry jumped with the shock of it.

"Answer your aunt, boy!" Uncle Vernon barked.

Tear began to prick the back of his eyes, and his throat was burning. "Please, I just want my book back."

"YOUR book?" Vernon snarled. "This looks like property of the library to me, boy, stolen property at that! We can't be having that. Petunia, my love, deal with this." The book was thrust into her hands, and she disappeared into the kitchen with it. "Now you, get upstairs. Now."

Another sharp slap was delivered when the first of his tears dared to fall from his eyes ("Crying is for the weak!"), and Harry ran upstairs into Dudley's second bedroom, where he broke down and cried before his uncle got there.

The next morning, when Harry slipped out through the backdoor on his way to school, he stopped in front of a small pile of ashes on the first step. He bent down to examine it, and sure enough, it looked like the remnants of the book he had been given yesterday. He bit back a cry of anguish, and ran all the way to school, tears burning the back of his eyes all the way.


	8. Not The First

Author's Note

So here it is, the obligatory apology that no one ever reads when real life rears its ugly head, and the story suffers. So yeah, sorry about that. Also, I wrote half this chapter before, and the other half today, so it's a bit stilted because I forgot what I was doing with it basically (also partly why it's so short), but I'm back, and hopefully a little more focused. Anyway, just wanted to thank anyone out there who's reading, whether you're reviewing or not, it's nice to be read, I suppose, even if you don't really agree with where I'm going with this. It's probably not going to change the general direction, even though a few people seem dissatisfied with the lack of action on the part of Simon etc. I tried to justify this a bit too much in this chapter, and then wondered who I was trying to please, and why... Oh yeah, and I really wish I'd not had Petunia burn that library book - regret that now and don't know why I did it... Oh well. Thanks for the support :)

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Simon put the phone back down carefully on the desk and paused for a few moments, staring out through Jackie's office window into the playground beyond without really seeing anything. He felt strange, and the conversation he'd just had with social services had been the cause of it.

He had eventually ignored Margaret's pleas to make sure that he had some solid evidence before going to social services with the continued problem of Harry, but he had drawn the line upon finding the child huddled inside the darkened library a few days before and had phoned that morning.

"I apologise, Mr Glass, but we have no records of any investigations into the Dursley household, nor into the name of any Harry Potter, but I'll give you the extension number for the department you need to discuss the possibility of an investigation," the woman had said on the other end of the phone. Simon had thanked her and hung up, scribbling the number down on the inside of his left wrist.

Margaret had assured him that social services had been involved before, however, so what on earth was going on? She had seemed too emotionally involved with Harry's wellbeing not to have phoned herself, and made sure a full investigation was made by the authorities. Could she have been lying?

He ran his hand though his hair and left the school. Most of the staff had already left by this point, and there were few cars sitting in the car park. One of them was a gaudy, bright red car, its engine idling in front of the front doors. Simon smiled faintly, and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Hey, big brother, how's it going?" Jack grinned brightly from the driver's seat, not waiting for a response before swinging the car around and speeding through the main gates.

"Christ, Jack, slow down. This is a school, you know!"

Jack gave him a wan look. "Please, it's half past four. You know perfectly well that all the kids have gone home now. You just don't want to admit that you're scared."

"Anyone would be scared when you're driving," Simon muttered.

They drove along in silence for a few minutes, Jack slowing down to a more respectable speed, and Simon loosening his grip on the door handle. After a few minutes became five, Jack glanced at his brother in concern.

"Tell me what's going on."

"It's Harry again," Simon said. "You remember before you met him, you asked if I'd phoned social services, and I said that I had but that there had never been a full investigation into him, though they were aware of him?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack nodding, and continued. "Well, I phoned up today after something that happened the other day, and now they claim to have no record of him or the Dursleys whatsoever, even though Margaret must have phoned hundreds of times when she taught him the year before last."

Jack frowned. "I don't understand. So the records have disappeared then?"

"Or Margaret lied."

The car turned sharply to the left, and Simon closed his eyes and squeezed the handle on the side of the door. "I can't imagine her doing something like that," Jack said, oblivious to his brother's discomfort. "You said yourself that she was really stressed about the kid and wouldn't even talk about him sometimes."

"It could be guilt for not doing the right thing when she had the chance," Simon mused, running a loose thread on his jacket through his fingers. He sighed. "I just can't imagine that records of things like that just disappear in social services. This is a child's wellbeing we're talking about here!"

"You often hear about this kind of thing happening though – social services letting down a child who then is killed by their own lunatic parents or something like that, or businessmen leaving important documents on the train and that kind of thing," Jack said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought.

"Well even if that's true, it still means that they don't know anything about him because the records aren't there!" Simon snapped, squeezing his hands into tight fists.

"Listen, Si," Jack said, reversing neatly into a space outside his brother's house, "If you're so worked up about this, phone them up yourself and get them to investigate him. Then you know something's being done, and maybe you could even be there when they go to talk to him or something like that."

Simon rested his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. "You're right, I know you're right, and I'll phone up after dinner. I just… I just didn't imagine that I'd get into this kind of mess when I started teaching. I thought it would be sunny cheerful children learning how to read, not messy family situations that I can't just leave alone."

Jack shrugged, and got out of the car, slamming the car door behind him. Simon frowned as he opened the front door, and holding it for Jack who marched straight into the kitchen.

"I'm sure the fact that you care so much about what happens to the children you've been put in charge of means that you're a good person to be doing this job," Jack offered. "One sugar or two?"

"One please," Simon murmured, watching his brother bash around in his kitchen with the kind of reckless abandon that he would not have in his own home. "I just don't understand why this hasn't already been sorted out. He's been at school for two years now, and Margaret and Dennis must have had some idea of what his life is like, and it seems like certain people almost expect this kind of behaviour from him."

"You said Margaret reported it, and what kind of behaviour, what are you talking about?" Jack asked, wandering out of the kitchen, and into the lounge, where he threw himself across the larger of the two sofas inside.

Simon explained briefly how Harry had hidden inside the library, hoping to be locked in on his own at night. "And afterwards, the librarian didn't seem particularly shocked by what he'd done, just that he'd not really considered how he might have been hurt. She didn't ask why he'd done it, and I'm sure she didn't suspect that it wasn't the first time he'd tried this."

Jack stirred his tea absently, and took a moment before he answered. For once, Simon thought, he seemed to be picking his words with care. "I think some people assume that it's not their business, and that someone else closer to the situation will sort things out for them. You're his teacher – he probably spends more time with you than with anyone else other than his family, so people probably think it's your responsibility to report things and look out for him."

"But these people have known him longer, they see him all the time!" Simon cried, his tea sloshing dangerously in his mug.

"Of course they do, and how often do they see him black and blue? How often do you think Harry sits down and tells them what's wrong at home? _You_ don't even know yet! All you have is a few bruises, and a few half-stories." He held up his hand to stall Simon's outraged outburst. "I'm not saying that there's nothing going on – we know that there is, but I'm just saying that maybe you can't blame people for not wanting to stick their noses in when they can convince themselves that there's nothing to tell."

Simon sighed and sank back into his chair, secretly hoping that it would swallow him up.

"I'm sure that the librarian woman just thought that he's an eccentric kid, who likes books so much he wanted to sleep there, and that he's shunned somewhat in favour of his cousin, so he's not that happy at home. People make all sorts of excuses for themselves when they need to," Jack said, trailing off somewhat towards the end.

With a faint smile, Simon said, "You know, you're starting to sound a bit like Hilary there, with your psychology. You'll be spouting Freud next."

Jack pulled a face. "Seriously though – either phone social services and get an investigation done, or shut up about it. You're driving me mad."

* * *

The next day, Simon found himself in Jackie's office once more, putting the phone back in its cradle, this time with a slightly grim smile in place. Social services had told him that they'd look into Harry's case as soon as possible, and assured him that they'd be in touch with him.

He felt a lot better for feeling that something was being done about someone he couldn't protect actively himself. When he walked into the classroom that morning, it seemed that everything was better that day. The sun was shining despite the weather forecast to the contrary on that cool November morning, he was cheerful, and even Harry seemed content in his tentative conversations with Michael Stone who was sitting opposite him. He smiled at the sight of them, and turned his attention back to the class.

The morning passed quickly for everyone, and when lunchtime came Simon was surprised to see Harry standing nervously by his desk, shifting from one foot to the other and waiting to speak with him.

"Uh, Mr Glass, sir," Harry asked quietly. "I was hoping that I might be allowed to stay inside and help Ms Roberts organise the library today." His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes darted to the window, where Simon could see Dudley watching them sharply through the glass.

"Ms Roberts isn't in school today, but I'm sure that if you really wish to, you could stay inside and read in here if you wish, whilst I look over some of the work I've got to do."

Harry's smile faltered slightly at that. "Can I borrow a book from the classroom then, please? I've not got my own book today."

Simon hid his surprise. It was rare that Harry wasn't carrying a book of some kind these days. "Where is the book you got from the library yesterday?"

Harry's eyes filled with tears, and he bit his lip hard. Eventually, he composed himself enough to explain what had happened. "Aunt Petunia burnt it."

"What? Why?"

"I think they thought I'd stolen it from the library perhaps, and they don't approve of reading," Harry told him, growing more confident in his anger. "But it wasn't even my book, and I don't know what I'm going to tell Mrs Thompson. I won't be allowed to borrow books any more."

This last part was said with saddened certainty, and Simon suspected that he probably wouldn't be allowed – not if his maniacal relatives destroyed anything of which they disapproved.

"Well, you can't take them out of the school, but I'm sure that you can spend lots of time in the library if you wish, and you can read all the books we've got in the classroom during your breaks," Simon tried to offer as a somewhat conciliatory prize.

Harry smiled faintly, as if he knew his teacher was doing his best to console him, and it was rare for anyone do to so.

With a quick smile, Harry left him to his work to curl up and read in the corner of the small carpeted area in the classroom. Simon pulled out his lesson plans for the next week, and pored over them for a good twenty-five minutes, tweaking them to suit both him and the children. When his stomach began to rumble, he sat up straight again and rubbed his eyes.

Harry was still sitting in the corner of the room, absorbed in one of the books. He hadn't moved an inch since sitting down, and Simon realised that neither of them had eaten any lunch.

"Did you bring any lunch, Harry?" Simon asked, hiding his smile when the boy jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Oh, I think I forgot it, sir," Harry said, and then went back to his book, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Simon blinked. "Well I've brought too much lunch with me today, so perhaps you'd like to share some of mine?"

Harry looked shocked and shook his head sharply. "Oh no, sir. I couldn't do that."

"I'll never be able to eat it all, and since you've not got any lunch then it would be foolish for you not to have any. After all, otherwise it's just going to be thrown away," Simon said, offering half a sandwich to Harry.

The boy jumped to his feet, and walked cautiously over to his teacher. Simon reflected that he looked as if the food was about to be taken away from him at any minute.

They ate in silence, sharing a cheese and tomato sandwich, a packet of crisps and a banana. Simon was sure he wouldn't feel the loss of the other half of his lunch, and he felt it was a small price to pay to ensure that Harry ate enough that day. He was skinny enough as it was.

"Why don't we write a letter to Mrs Thompson explaining to her what happened with the book you borrowed, and apologising for it?" Simon asked towards the end of their small meal.

Harry looked apprehensive, but then Harry often looked apprehensive, but agreed if he thought it would help.

Simon placed a sheet of paper in front of him, and provided the pencils he might want, and within the last half hour of the lunch break, Harry had written a short letter explaining what had happened to the book, and had drawn some small pictures around the outside to placate the strict librarian.

Harry let his teacher put the letter in the envelope and write the address of the library on the front, but he was permitted to lick the stamp and put it onto the front of the letter, even though it was at a bit of an odd angle.

"I'll post that tonight then, if you want, and she'll get it in a couple of days, and then she'll know that it wasn't your fault that something happened to the book," Simon said, smiling fondly at Harry, who beamed back.

* * *

It was with a slight smile, that Harry slipped out of the school that afternoon and seemingly melted into the crowd of children and adults alike, as if he were naturally a part of it, not an anomaly passing through. Simon watched his retreating form until he could no longer distinguish him from anyone else, and then turned back to his classroom.

"Good afternoon, Mr Glass." He turned around wearily; he'd thought he'd seen the last of the worried parents nearly five minutes ago now.

The woman in question smiled warmly, and there was something about the friendliness about her that made her immediately likeable. She ignored the pleas of what appeared to be her youngest child tugging at her arm, and faced him levelly.

"Good afternoon, Mrs…"

"Mrs Stone, I'm Michael's mother," she said helpfully. "People are noticing you, you know."

Simon stared at her blankly.

"Not in a bad way, I mean, but just that you're watching over Harry. I'm glad that someone is," she said simply.

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" he asked, moving forwards swiftly when she turned to leave.

She gave him a look that said that perhaps she had given him too much credit before. "You know what I mean, I'm sure. I imagine you've learned a lot about Harry so far if you're even half as protective of him as I get the impression you are. He comes to me often on a weekend, you see. I run the bakery in town, and he's often around."

He took a moment to digest this information. He knew now why she was so familiar to him, but less sure as to why she was speaking to him.

"I'm very protective over him, as I ought to be," Simon said, frowning slightly, "I just can't understand why no one else is."

She looked faintly surprised at that. "Everyone is concerned for Harry, and don't think for a moment that you're the first person to phone social services, or to find that he mysteriously doesn't exist on their books," she said sharply, as if reading his mind, "but sometimes, I'm sure it's nice for Harry to know that there's someone out there who cares about him, and who's watching over him."

Simon's mouth opened and closed several times in quick succession, but she just smiled at him. "I hope you manage to succeed where so many of us have failed in the past. Good afternoon, Mr Glass."

And then she was gone, dragging a young girl by the hand through the crowds, whilst Michael and presumably his older sister bickered behind them.

He smiled faintly, and closed the classroom door behind them.


	9. Disorientation

A/N: I just want to say thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last time around. It pleases me that people have shown interest. I hope to write a story worthy of it. For me, this felt like an ambitious chapter, and I'm not sure it's quite what I intended upon, but I'm happy(ish) with it.  


* * *

Chapter Nine - Disorientation

She regrets meeting him on his own turf as soon as she steps foot through the door. The magical world is not somewhere she ventures often these days; she long since learned that it is not her place, so to step foot over the threshold of The Leaky Cauldron feels foreign and daunting to her. Still, she feels this is a necessary evil.

Her shawl tightens around her shoulders, warming her with old magic, which she has never been able to cast herself. A well-worn gift from a talented mother, who has long since departed. A swift glance around the room, but he is not there. Dumbledore wants privacy for this meeting, and Arabella is not surprised. She would want privacy too, if she knew what was coming. Dumbledore knows what is coming, and what she will say, she realises from the meeting place and the fact that he has clearly rented a room. She wonders if it is worthwhile going. He already knows and has done nothing.

Tom catches her eye and smiles. They are the same age, but magic has sustained him in the way that it has not for her. You would never believe they had been young friends once. "Upstairs, third room on your right," he calls over to her, and she nods her head in thanks.

The stairs take less time to climb than they ought, considering their height, she thinks, as she ascends. As she often does when in this world, she wonders if it is a trick of the magic, or whether it is her own mind, expecting this kind of thing to happen. It feels oppressive, or perhaps it is the slight touch of fear upon her that makes her feel this way. When she reaches the third room on the right, the door is closed, and she feels something unnatural wrapping around the doorhandle when she reaches out for it, she is sure.

"Arabella, so lovely to see you." The voice comes from within, even as she turns the handle. She is sure Dumbledore performs such party tricks to unnerve her.

It has been a long time since she has thought of him by his given name.

She wonders if he thinks of her using hers.

He has risen to greet her, she notes, and somehow, she manages to force a warm smile to her face. Arabella thinks that if he had ever attended Hogwarts, there is a chance she would have been a Slytherin, for her ability to play whoever was necessary.

"And you, Albus. It pleases me to see you so obviously high in health." She sits calmly in the armchair opposite his, glancing down at the small table between them, whereupon a teaset perched. She tries not to give away any signs of discomfort when the tea begins to pour itself.

She leans back in her chair, glancing around at her surroundings, and feeling vaguely dismayed by the way the back of the chair curves around to the sides, acting like blinkers to the rest of the room. Not that it matters, she thinks with a touch of despondency, she is facing the most powerful wizard in the world. He does not require anything to sneak up behind her, or conceal itself. She tries not to wonder if he has altered the colour of his robes to match that of the chair in which she sits.

"So then, to business," he says, letting go of his cup in midair, and allowing it to float gently down to its saucer on the table. She does not let her eyes follow its path. "Tell me, please, of young Harry's progression."

Arabella takes a deep breath, wondering where to begin, and how best to order her thoughts. "You must remove him immediately."

"Remove him? From the care of blood relatives?" She notes that Dumbledore has the good grace to look shocked. She wonders how long he will go along with this game. "Why would you suggest such a thing?"

"They mistreat him, Albus," she begins, her face entreating, "He is treated as a slave – I have seen him forced to garden for hours on end in the summer, and do other chores unsuitable for a seven year old, like washing the car and cleaning the windows. He cleans inside, and I am sure he is made to cook breakfast. On an evening, his cries have come through my living room wall, and he hides bruises beneath the baggy hand-me-downs he is made to wear."

She takes a moment to breathe, but Dumbledore takes his chance.

"Now, I think you may be being a little hasty. I am sure that you are seeing what you want to see. You think that he would be better served by being raised in the magical world, as you were not," he says, holding out a hand to forestall her objections, "and many others think so too. Though this kind of defence is touching, it is unnecessary. I am sure that Harry will get the start in life that he deserves with his Muggle family, and that you are seeing only what you expect to see from your dealings with Muggles. Why would they treat him in such a way?"

"Because they disdain magic and all those connected with it!" Arabella cries out, stopping herself from leaping to her feet at the very last moment. "You know yourself that Lily never spoke to Petunia after she moved out of the family home, because Petunia could not stand the power, which she perceived as being held over her. She is clearly doing whatever she can to hold herself and her family over the child, and prove their superiority. Lily would never have wanted her son to be raised there. She would have wanted him raised by Remus or Minerva, and you denied their claims! She would have had him in Malfoy Manor before he stepped foot in Petunia's household and you know it!"

This last ends in a screech, followed suddenly by a stifled sob. Perhaps Slytherin was not for her, but perhaps Hufflepuff for the compassionate and loyal. Yes, that would have been the house for her. And yet her loyalty had shifted away from Albus sharply when she saw the way he had left a young boy so carelessly with those unsuited to care for him.

Dumbledore sighs then and gets to his feet to pace. Though a magic-free acion, it makes her nervous.

"I have told you time and time again that he must stay where he is no matter what. Unless his life is threatened, he will stay there." He rubs his forehead in a wearied manner. She does not believe his poor old man façade for one moment. "His destiny, when he is older, may depend upon his being strong and independent—"

"And so you think that some crackpot theory about the future is enough reason to leave a boy in abusive and neglectful conditions? That wouldn't hold up in any court in the world!" she says, laughing harshly afterwards. "Not even one which you control."

He turns to her then, the façade down. He is not old, she sees, though he must be older than her by far, perhaps twice as old. Instead she is facing a powerful wizard, and she is but a Muggle, powerless in his grasp. She feels like she has seen him in this strange unmasked state before, but she cannot place it in her memory.

"It is not a matter of persuasion. It never is. He will stay there," Dumbledore says, and the room fills with something strange. Some kind of oppressive power, and she does not know what kind of influence it has over her, but she assumes it has at least some. "There is nothing you can do to make me change my mind. I will not sacrifice what could be the future of the world for the sake of one happier childhood! You will return to him, to watch over him and to guard him from real danger. You will not meddle with things which cannot be altered. You will cease futilely harassing Muggle Social Services. You will do as you are ordered, Arabella Figg."

His wand is pointed at her, but she does not remember his getting it out. She blinks a few times, and shakes her head, as if to lift the disorientation from her. She feels old then, and cannot for the life of her understand why she is in this room, or in this place.

"It has been a pleasure, but I must take your leave, Arabella," Dumbledore says, pressing her hand fondly between his own. "I hope I shall see you sooner next time."

And with that, he is gone. Behind him, he leaves a disorientated old woman, who feels at once so alone and desolate, that she sets her head into her arms and begins to weep. She does not know why she was here, but she suspects something to do with the boy who was put into her care. The thought of him alone with his wretched family only makes the tears pour faster, and her shawl tightens comfortingly around her.

When she is composed enough to leave, she checks her reflection in the mirror, and retorts bitterly when it is less than complimentary to her.

Downstairs, Tom smiles at her again. He has always been warm, and sometimes, his kind friendship has been all she feels she has had in this world that was worth anything at all.

"You know, it's nice to see you so often, after all these years, Belle," he says with an easy smile. She feels her own smile freezing. She has not seen Dumbledore or been to this place in months. "Same time next week?"

She feels her expression slide off her face. It is a strange sensation and she wonders momentarily if she is having a stroke. She is not, and she finds the strength to run from the room, resolving to explain to Tom later on.

Outside, she gasps for air. It is a long time until she will venture into this world again.


	10. Promises

Chapter Ten - Promises

"How about a hidden camera?"

Simon looked up, a weary and slightly irritated look to his features. Jack was sprawled across the sofa, twirling a pen between his fingers, and eyeing the cracks in his brother's ceiling.

"You know, you really ought to decorate this place again," he added, as an afterthought. "If you ever decide to bring a woman back here again… well, let's just say that she won't be all that impressed, you know."

"Firstly, putting a camera into the Dursleys' house would require me to enter their property, put a camera somewhere I think would capture some kind of cruelty towards Harry, and when said cruelty happens, justify my use of unlawful spying to the police," Simon replied icily. "I wouldn't even know how to go about that, let alone wish to face the trouble afterwards, and what if it failed and I end up with a criminal record and can't teach any more? Fat lot of good I'd be then."

He frowned, looking back to the laptop which sat on his dining table. He hadn't known what to do on it for some time now.

"Also, I don't know how much money you think I make as a teacher, but I hardly have enough to redecorate, what with the mortgage and the car and everything. Money just pours away…" he sighed then, and ran a hand through messy hair.

"Can't afford a haircut either, I see," Jack said, brightly. "And you could just ask Mum and Dad for some money. You know they'd give you it. The prodigal son and all that. They'd be thrilled to help."

"They'd be smug and never let me live it down. I knew I could never go back to them when I moved out, and I stand by that now."

Jack sat up suddenly, fixing his brother with a slightly pained desperate look. Simon smiled inwardly; he hadn't seen that kind of look from him since they'd been young. "When did you say it was that social services were visiting Harry?"

He had been wondering when the penny would drop. Despite the large SOC SER TODAY scrawled across that day's calendar entry in the kitchen, it had taken Jack the best part of the day to figure out what was happening, and why he was so tense.

It felt like time had been flying by. It was nearly Christmas, and Simon had promised himself that if social services hadn't been in touch by Friday, then he was going to storm down to wherever their headquarters were and do some serious shouting. He just didn't know what else to do. Thankfully, on the Wednesday evening, they had contacted him to let him know one of their support officers would be visiting the Dursley household that Saturday, to best see them all together.

"Worried?" Jack asked, breaking into the stream of his thoughts.

"No, I couldn't be better," Simon replied, and Jack's eyebrows shot up. "In fact, I'm so well that I think I might just burst into song…"

"Yeah, all right, there's no need to be sarcastic," Jack muttered, his face morphing into a frown. He went back to twirling his pen in the air, watching it clatter loudly in the unnaturally still room more often than not.

"You're not helping matters!" Simon barked so suddenly, that Jack very nearly fell off the sofa all together, and the pen flew through the air into Simon's outstretched hand. His look of disbelief instantly turned to one of calm, as if he had intended it that way all along, before Jack could notice.

* * *

It was a little after midday of the 14th December, when the door bell rang. Petunia marched to the door, half in irritation. The war between whether or not to make the boy answer the door was always in her mind. One the one hand, why should she have to leave her soaps when he could just as easily go? But on the other, what if it was someone of some importance, and the first thing they saw was a scruffy urchin? No, better keep him out of sight, and go herself.

A cheerful young woman was on the other side. "We don't want any," Petunia said sharply, seeing the papers in her hand. She moved to close the door, but the woman's words stopped her short.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Dursley. My name is Claire and I'm from Social Services," she said, without the bright smile ever leaving her face. Petunia looked her up and down, her mind working. Where was the boy? What had she set him to do?

An unnaturally bright smile lit up Petunia's face. "Of course you are. Do come in. I must apologise," she continued, leading their guest to the kitchen, "but we do get so many cold callers around here that I forget my manners sometimes. May I offer you some tea?"

"No thank you, I'm here strictly on business today," Claire told her, her sharp eyes leaving hers only once to glance swiftly around the room. It wasn't long enough to take in anything of real value, yet Petunia felt uncertain. "I was hoping to speak to a young Mr Potter in your care, if that's at all possible?"

Petunia smiled again, her face stretching uncomfortably. "I'm afraid that's not possible today, you see Vernon's taken the boys on a camping trip."

"Oh how lovely," Claire said, not believing a word, Petunia thought. "Though I didn't think there was anywhere close by to go camping. When will they be back?"

"Not until late tomorrow night, I shouldn't think. The boys always want to stay out for as long as they can together. You know how young children are," Petunia said. "But you're welcome to call back any time."

"I certainly shall," the young woman said, undeterred. She was used to this kind of behaviour from those she visited, if nothing else. "I'll be back before you know it, Mrs Dursley."

She moved slowly back the way she had come, this time her eyes were clearly darting around, taking in all the details she could. They rested the longest on the cupboard under the stairs, and the locks on the outside of the door.

"Do you know when you'll be back?" Petunia asked. "It would be awful for you to come all this way again, just to be disappointed."

"I couldn't possibly say," Claire replied, her fingers touching the door handle. It moved unexpectedly under her hand, and she jumped back slightly. The door opened, and if looks could kill, Harry Potter would have dropped dead under the glare of his aunt that very moment.

"Oh, and you must be Harry," a cheerful woman said when he walked inside. He froze instinctively, a strange fear contorting his features at finding himself suddenly so close to his aunt and a strange woman who knew his name.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, keeping his eyes on the floor, not seeing the looks which passed over his head between the two women.

Suddenly, Harry felt a gentle hand on his chin, tilting his head up. "Well aren't you just the sweetest boy I've met all week," the new woman said with a warmth in her voice that had rarely been directed at him, and never under this roof. She was kneeling down on his level, her eyes watching his. There was some kind of hardness about her which made him feel safe and afraid all at once.

"My name's Claire," she said, when it seemed that he wouldn't reply unless directly asked a question. "I'm from social services, and I'm here to ask you a few questions alone, if that's all right with your aunt."

Harry sensed that it didn't quite matter what Aunt Petunia thought on the matter, and the glare that passed from her to Claire didn't miss his attention. "Perhaps in here will do for our chat," Claire said, pushing the door to the lounge open, and taking Harry's hand in one swift movement. Harry didn't miss the look his aunt sent him. It clearly meant that bad things were coming his way, and he felt a slight tremor pass through him.

The door closed behind them, with a soft click, and Claire lead him right across the room, as far away from the entrance as she could. She sat down on the small window seat, and beckoned for Harry to join her. He hovered uncertainly.

"I… I'm not meant to sit on the furniture in here," he explained quietly. She gave him an incredulous look for a moment.

"Well, today I'm giving you permission," she said quietly. She winked then. "Your aunt will never know."

He glanced back at the door, and took the hand which was offered to him when he turned back to her. It felt strangely like he was sinking when he sat down on the soft seating for the first time, but he became accustomed to it quickly.

He could feel the woman's gaze on his face again, and he turned to look at her. Aunt Petunia had made it quite clear that she was not welcome in their home, and he had long held the belief that any enemy of the Dursleys was a friend to him. Up close, he could see that she was far younger than his aunt, and she didn't have the same kind of pinched look that Aunt Petunia always wore either. There was something about her eyes which reminded him of the way some of the shopkeepers in town regarded him, and this familiarity warmed her to him more than she could have realised.

"Is Dudley allowed on the furniture?" she asked after a moment. He shook his head slightly.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked quietly. His eyes had dropped back down to his lap again, as they had a tendency to do when awkwardness began to set in.

Claire took a moment before answering. Harry thought it looked to him like she was trying to phrase things carefully for his benefit. "I'm here to find out whether or not you're happy and safe living with your relatives."

"Who sent you?" he asked, emboldened by her easy though unexpected response to his question.

"I'm here as part of the government," she replied quietly, "but quite a few people have suggested to us that we might want to come and check how you're doing here." She glanced down at the papers she was still holding when she said this. Harry felt a small feeling of warmth inside him when he realised that she was telling the truth. People did care about him.

"Who thought that we might want to come and check on me?" he asked. His only response this time was a bright smile.

"Tell me about living here, Harry, how are you finding it?" she asked. "Do you feel that you're treated fairly?"

He paused then, weighing his words. He wanted to make sure that he said the right thing, if that was what it took to make sure that things changed around here. He could imagine no other conclusion from their conversation. It never crossed his mind that he might be removed from there altogether.

Just then, he happened to glance at the door. There was a gap larger than usual between the floor and the bottom of the door; often when he was free to wander the house, he had listened to their quiet conversations in the lounge on an evening. Often when he'd been caught at it, and sent to his cupboard with a stinging cheek, he would hear his Aunt demand that Uncle Vernon fix it. He never had.

A shadow moved slightly on the floor, and he swallowed. It was Aunt Petunia, of this he was sure. She was listening to every word he said, and suddenly, an image of her angry glare filled his mind. This new woman would not remain in the house for long, and once she had gone, Aunt Petunia would tell Uncle Vernon how he'd betrayed the family, and Uncle Vernon would be angry and…

He took a deep breath then, afraid by the sheer prospect of it all. Harry turned his eyes to Claire then, with a strange sorrowful look, he wasn't aware he was giving her. He shook his head softly, and his eyes fell back downwards again.

"I'm quite happy living here, thank you." His voice was clipped and certain. It was unlike his natural way of speaking, and it surprised even himself. It felt like an older person speaking for him.

Claire turned tragic eyes upon him. "You know that you can tell me anything, Harry, and if you're unhappy here then you need to let people know about it so that they can help you."

For some time, they went back and forth. Claire asked ever more probing questions into Harry's life at home, and Harry answered automatically with an answer he thought that he would give if he were treated in the same manner as Dudley.

It felt like forever to Harry, but when he glanced up at the large clock, it had only been fifteen minutes, when Claire seemed to give up entirely. She stopped for a moment, and surveyed him warmly. She leant close to him and whispered softly by his ear.

"It's okay, Harry. If you're ever unhappy or afraid living here, then let someone know. I'm a friend of Mr Glass at school, and we can help you if you feel like we need to, I promise." This whispered declaration was almost too much for Harry, but he held firm. She was leaving, that much was clear, and Aunt Petunia was still outside the door. Once she had gone, if he'd said anything to displease his family, he would feel the effects, not her. She was unable to help him really, he knew.

Still, the knowledge that she knew Mr Glass warmed his heart, and he managed to give her a bright smile, which he hoped looked more genuine than it felt. He was tired, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in his cupboard and hide for a while. He was unused to so much attention focused on him at any one time.

Oddly, as he watched the front door close behind Claire, he felt like he'd let her down. He turned back to Aunt Petunia, and her gaze was something unusual to him. "Come and sit down at the table and eat your lunch."

It felt like his eyes were going to fall out of his head, but he managed to hold his reactions into himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten lunch, or the last time it had been at the table, and not in his cupboard. He wondered if this was some kind of reward for lying for them.

He entered the kitchen quietly, and sat down. He had been expecting some kind of trick, at the very least, not a small ham sandwich with the crusts cut off, just the way that Dudley always requested his. He ate it quickly, and when he finished, Aunt Petunia told him he could have the day to do whatever he wished.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he smiled at his aunt.

* * *

Claire sat down on the dark green sofas, and took in her surroundings automatically, as she had been trained to do a long time since. The mug of tea in her hands warmed her through, and she felt the comfort of old, well worn furniture. She looked to the two men surveying her, unsure what they wanted to hear. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for those with an interest in those she protected to request her presence to hear for themselves what was going on.

"He says he's fine there," she said quietly, speaking more to the mug than to the two men. "That he's happy there," she amended.

They were two brothers, she knew. One older, calmer, and already world-weary, though he was around the same age as herself, twenty-three, she guessed at most. The other was younger, more impulsive, and not yet twenty-one. They were so similar, and so stark in contrast at once, that it was almost unnerving.

Their reactions were as she'd predicted from her words: Jack leapt to his feet, with a wild cry of "What?!" whilst Simon stayed seated, a frown crossing his face. This was just a new problem for him, added to a multitude of others which she imagined all began and ended with the young boy she had just been to see.

"Surely you don't believe him?!" Jack cried, "He's miserable there! They treat him like dirt!"

"Where were you in relation to his Aunt and Uncle when you were speaking to him?" Simon asked, cutting across his brother sharply. Jack stopped raving, and leant heavily against the door behind him.

Claire quickly explained, adding, "I'm sure she was listening outside the door though, but Harry shouldn't have thought she'd be eavesdropping."

Simon snorted derisively. "If you knew she was there, then he knew," he stated. "He's anything but stupid, and you'd be amazed by how perceptive he is. Couldn't you have taken him further away?"

"I'm not permitted to take him off the premises, and there was nowhere in the house I could go where she couldn't follow me to listen," Claire admitted.

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, broken twice by angry noises from Jack's direction.

"So what are you going to do now?" Simon asked her.

"Nothing," Claire said quietly.

"Nothing?!" This time, it was Simon who had leapt to his feet. "You're going to leave him there to god knows what kind of fate? You've seen _that woman_. You know what she's like! They're hurting him!"

She gave him a level stare. "Prove it. Show me some kind of evidence that he's being neglected or worse, and I'll have him removed."

Simon's mouth went dry.

He would never have suspected Jack to leap in for some kind of hamhanded rescue. "You've _seen_ him, for god's sake! He's a bag of bones, wearing his fat cousin's handmedown rags for clothes! His cousin's a whale of a kid – fed twice what he ought to be, and Harry's fed less than half. You can see it with your own eyes! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"

Jack staggered slightly, overwhelmed by unexpected emotions, Simon suspected. He watched his younger brother turn dazedly on the spot, and run a hand over his face in a gesture of stress he had rarely seen in him before. He wondered for a moment if his eyes had glistened, or if it had been merely a trick of the light.

"Please, be calm," Claire said, speaking again, and setting her mug of tea down on the coffee table in front of her. It was the only thing between her and the angry brothers. She could feel their pain, but there was nothing she could do in this instance. "I cannot return to my office and file paperwork for the removal of a child who could well have a fast metabolism, who could be spinning tales for attention—" they both moved to speak, but she held up a hand to stop them. "This is what my superiors will tell me. We must be certain before we remove someone from their home, and in the cold light of the office, the evidence isn't enough."

"What can we do?" Simon asked, a note of pleading in his voice which he wasn't used to, "What can you do?"

"I can do little, but continue to check on him at unexpected times, and involve the teachers, such as yourself," she said, helplessly.

"And what of when he ends up covered in bruises, or in hospital? What then?" Jack demanded.

She gazed at him. "Should it ever come to that, I expect pictures of his injuries," she said, suddenly cold and hard. "I want pictures of any injuries, and if necessary, I want that kid on tape saying he wants out of that house. I don't care what you have to do to get that kind of evidence," she added unexpectedly, "not when it's someone's life we're talking about. Keep records of behaviour suggesting abuse or neglect, and get witnesses to sign it."

Simon and Jack were momentarily stunned into silence.

Claire continued. "You need evidence that will stand up in a court of law, because to get him away from them for good, I suspect that's where we'll be going. There's something about her that seems like…" she paused, searching for words, her demeanour softening again, thinking of Harry, "… like she doesn't want him there, but she's unwilling to let him walk away."

Simon and Jack shared an uneasy look at this, but didn't comment. She rose to leave then, and neither of them stopped her, or stalled her.

She turned her smile on them, wearier than the one she had bestowed upon Harry earlier, and far more genuine than Petunia had seen her. "I am glad he has two such defenders, I think Harry might need you before long," she said quietly. "You have my number, Mr Glass, and there will be an ongoing investigation into the family. Feel free to contact me with anything you feel is necessary, and I'll email you a copy of the notes I've taken today, strictly off the record, that is." She flashed him that smile again, more determined this time.

They said their goodbyes at the door, and when she was gone, Simon leaned against the back of it, and Jack sagged against the wall.

"I didn't expect this to be easy but…" Simon trailed off with a sigh that was half exhaustion and half frustration.

"I know," Jack said, through gritted teeth, slamming his hand against the wall, and then wincing in pain afterwards. Simon snorted with laughter.

Jack turned a dirty look on him, and then grabbed his jacket from the hook behind the door.

"Where are you going?" Simon asked. Jack had been around so much of late that it was strange for him to leave without real reason. He had even started driving to university from his house on a morning.

"Electrical shop in town," Jack explained, a dark smile crossing his features. "We're going to buy a camera and a dictaphone. We'll get those bastards, don't you worry about that."

Simon didn't have time to object to his brother's language, and he only just had time to grab his house keys and a jacket before the car was revving impatiently outside the house.

He promised then, to anyone who was listening, and many who weren't, that he'd do whatever it took to keep Harry safe.

* * *

A/N: Actual plot progression, I tells you!! I don't really know the way social services work here, to be honest, and I'm not sure I can research into this kind of thing accurately, so I'm drawing conclusions that will fit with where this story is going. Thanks as always, to all those reading out there. I know it's very Simon-heavy at the minute, and I suppose a lot of this story will be, but as time goes on and Harry gets older, he'll feature a lot more.


	11. A Third of the Way to Summer Holidays

Chapter Eleven - A third of the way to the summer holidays

On the last day of the autumn term, six days before Christmas, Harry wrapped his arms around himself, huddling closer into the small alcove in the playground, which had long since been his favourite. The rest of the children had left some time ago, and only he remained. He hadn't thought he'd be told off for dawdling home by his aunt that day, since he suspected she would be only too pleased to have Dudley home for two full weeks uninterrupted. Instead, he stayed out in the crisp afternoon air, relishing his freedom for as long as he could. There were still cars in the carpark that he could see, and he suspected that the school was still filled with teachers.

He didn't want to go home for Christmas. It was always the same, as far as he could remember; Dudley screeched about presents, Uncle Vernon blustered around and guffawed loudly at the television, and Aunt Petunia swooped between Dudley and Uncle Vernon constantly, making sure that neither was without food of some kind. Harry was always swept to the sidelines, except for Christmas Day morning, when he was awakened at the crack of dawn to start peeling all manner of vegetables for the dinner he would not be sharing with them. Instead, when presents had been opened, dinner consumed, and Aunt Marge had been to visit, he would be given whatever was left of the dinner he had largely prepared – mostly vegetables, and sometimes a bit of gravy or the dregs of the turkey.

For the rest of the holidays, he would be set to work on different household chores to keep him busy, and sometimes sent into town to pick up shopping Petunia had phoned for beforehand. On those occasions, he would wander into the bakery to see the Stones, and run quickly to see Mr Bones whilst he was there. People were always more pleasant at Christmas, except for his relatives, who were markedly worse in their attitude towards him. He suspected it was the time of year when they most wished for his absence, and kept him locked away more often.

No, Christmas was not the best time of year for Harry.

Still, for now, he was sitting in the playground, alone and with all the space in the world at his disposal. Dudley and his gang had gone home, and wouldn't be back, and he was free to enjoy Prince Caspian in the daylight.

A slight smile touched his face, and for once, he felt light and carefree. With the weight of a book in his hands, and the warmth of his jacket around him, he fell into a light sleep. No one was the wiser for his location.

* * *

"To being a third of the way to the summer holidays!"

The sound of glass against glass filled the room, along with a few hearty, "Cheers!" and much laughter.

"There are few things I love more than going home and knowing that I don't have to see any children for two weeks," Stephen said, taking a large gulp of his wine, and setting his feet on the coffee table.

"So you barricade yourself in the house then?" Margaret asked coolly. "Every time I set foot outside the house during the holidays, every public place I go is filled with children. There's no escaping them."

"That's what I like about working with you people," Simon said, a slight smile surfacing, "The sheer love for those you teach."

Beside him, Jackie sniggered, and reached out for the crisps.

"Yeah, it's all right for you to laugh, Jackie, you don't teach any of them!" Stephen pointed out, in a fit of mock indignation. "All you do it sit at a desk all day, batting your eyelashes at children's fathers and saying things like, 'Well it's lovely to see you again Mr McAlister, but your son _has_ bitten Ms Montgomery twice, and we think he has some rage issues. Perhaps we can hold a meeting with the head.'"

Margaret raised a bandaged hand into the air, and Dennis looked like he'd spat out some of his wine trying to laugh and swallow at the same time.

"Oh! Who had Dennis snorting his wine after ten minutes?!" Stephen asked brightly, ignoring irritated looks from both Jackie and Dennis.

"All right, children, settle down now," Ruth interjected. "It's your own time you're wasting. And incidentally, it was I who thought Dennis would snort his wine between ten and eleven minutes."

Simon gave a disappointed groan. "I bet that he wouldn't do it at all…"

Margaret snorted. "I know you've not worked here _that_ long, Simon, but really… all you have to do is say 'knock knock' when he's about to take a sip and there'll be drink sprayed everywhere."

Jackie smiled at him. "It's strange. It feels like so much longer than just a few months that you've been here."

Stephen leant forwards, and added in an overly eerie tone, "That's because you've been here _for fifty years…_ All the children you originally taught are old people now."

"Shut up, cretin."

Dennis smiled nervously. "I hope you don't talk to your class like that, Maggie."

"No, far more four-letter words when she's talking to the kids," Stephen said, with a grin.

Simon set his glass back down on the coffee table, and glanced up to see that it was already dark outside and beginning to rain. "Urgh, half past four already?" he said. "Jack'll be at home by now waiting for me to cook dinner."

"Demanding housewife?" Ruth asked, smiling behind her wine glass.

"Nope, lazy brother," he explained, and reached for his coat. "As lovely as this Christmas party is, I now have to walk home due to the wine, so I think I'll get going."

"Yeah, I think I'll get going as well," Dennis said. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

"Merry Christmas," Margaret said, "and I expect to see you all at my New Year's party."

"Sure thing, Mags, what day is it on again?"

Simon snorted, grabbing his umbrella as he walked through the door for the last time for two weeks. He couldn't bring himself to be irritated with the weather and the fact that he now had to walk home through it; their small Christmas party had been very enjoyable and the wine had given him a pleasant buzz, which he suspected was keeping him warm.

* * *

The first few drops of rain were enough to wake Harry, and he realised firstly, that it was dark, and secondly, that because of this, it must have been quite late, and he was still sitting in the school's playground. His book was already getting slightly damp, and he slipped it into his battered rucksack before slinging it across one shoulder.

From somewhere he thought he heard laughter, but he dismissed it. As he walked up past the school, he came level with the entranceway. When the door was flung open, his first instinct was to slip into the shadows to avoid being seen. It was far away, but he could see Mr Glass and Mr Partridge walking up the school's drive together, and then parting ways at the top.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry followed his teacher at a distance. He had always wondered where teachers lived, and he had a strong reluctance towards going home.

He supposed that if Mr Glass was walking, then it could not be so very far, and since he appeared to be walking towards the town centre, perhaps he could call in to see Janie or Mr Bones on his way home.

The walk was not an overly long one, perhaps half an hour, and Harry realised that his teacher lived closer to him than he had previously thought. The rain barely bothered him, except for fleeting glances down at his jacket, in which he was hiding his current book. He had wondered why he did not simply run up to his teacher, and show his presence, but at the last minute, he kept dissuading himself, knowing this he would surely not be welcomed.

Eventually, they reached a small cul-de-sac, and when Mr Glass disappeared down into it, Harry ran after him, so as not to lose his way. He watched his teacher run up the pathway, and into the porch, where he fumbled for the keys to the house. The door swung open, and closed again quickly, and his teacher was gone. Now Harry wasn't sure what to do with himself. He continued to stare at the house for a few moments, then, when he realised he was still being soaked through, he ran up the pathway, and crept into the porch.

It was warmer, and drier than he had hoped for, and, hoping that he would not be discovered, he curled up in the corner, telling himself that he'd just rest here until the rain let up a little, and he could feel his toes again. The warmth enveloped him, and he fell fast asleep.

* * *

Simon found himself staring mindlessly at the television, and realised that he had no idea what he'd been watching or what had been happening. His cup of tea had gone cold, and his headache had dissipated somewhat. He'd come home to a note from Jack explaining that he'd been back and, having found him missing, had wandered off again to see some of his friends. Simon thought he might have appreciated the company, but it was of little consequence. Jack would be back later, or the next morning, in time to irritate him all the way through the Christmas holidays. There was no doubt about that.

He was surprised when he heard the doorbell, half an hour or so after arriving home. Jack would have walked straight in, and he had few friends who would call upon him here. Switching off the television and standing up in one fluid motion, he crossed the room quickly, trying to figure out all the while who it could be.

"Simon, hey," Jackie said, smiling in at him from the porch. She held his briefcase in one hand, and a mildly exasperated expression crossed her features. "You know, I'm really not into running personal errands for the staff out of hours."

He took it from her, and smiled wearily. "Sorry, long day," he explained. "I barely know what I'm doing any more."

He froze then, and an odd expression slipped over his face. Behind Jackie, one of his jackets had fallen onto the floor. But it wasn't this that bothered him, it was the fact that he could see a small child curled up beneath it. "Harry?"

"What?" Jackie squawked, spinning around, and then turning back to him when she couldn't see anyone.

Simon stepped past her swiftly, and pulled the jacket back to reveal the small child, curled up on himself on the cold stone floor. His eyes opened blearily, and there was a clear moment in which he had no idea where he was or what was going on. Then his eyes widened in shock and horror.

"Harry, what on earth are you doing here?" Simon asked, kneeling down so that he was on level with him. "You should be at home."

"He's shivering!" Jackie gasped. "Here, let's get him inside."

Simon didn't give him chance to respond, and bent down to him. He wrapped his arms around Harry, holding the light jacket, under which he'd been sleeping, around him, and carried him into the house.

The first thing Harry noticed was how different this house was to his own home. He'd been immediately carried into the lounge, a place where he was never permitted at the Dursleys', and had been put straight down on the sofa. Mr Glass had gone to put the kettle on, and had promised him some hot chocolate, and Ms Roberts had her arm around him, and was stroking his hair fondly.

The room was very different to the one he was used to. At home, the lounge was a pristine place, where even Dudley would be told off if he didn't behave as he ought, and made any kind of mess. This was clearly a different place; there were papers stacked up on the coffee table, a small computer in the corner, which also carried a share of papers, a mug left half-full, and comfortable furniture, so unlike the hard, austere furniture at home. It felt far more welcoming, more welcoming than most places he had been in his short life.

Simon returned a few minutes later, anxiously balancing three mugs in his hands: two tea, and one hot chocolate. At least with Jack in the house, there was always some kind of sugary drink to go with the unhealthy food he bought. He had been as swift as possible, not wanting to leave Harry for even a moment if he could help it.

He sat down on the coffee table itself, so that he was facing Harry and Jackie, the former seeming more relaxed than he had ever seen him.

"So, what brings you to my abode on such a day as today?" he asked, smiling faintly when he bent down to look at Harry. He was no longer shivering, and seemed overawed by the drink given to him. Simon wouldn't have been surprised if Petunia never gave him anything even remotely pleasant to eat or drink.

Harry coloured and looked firmly at his knees. "You weren't meant to find me here," he said quietly. "I was just going to get warm and then set off when the rain wasn't so heavy."

"But why were you at my house in the first place? You don't live very close-by."

If possible, Harry turned a little redder at this, and he curled in on himself a little more. "I followed you. I saw you walking home from school, and I wondered where you live, so I followed you."

"Don't you think your aunt would have wanted you to go straight home, and not followed someone across town?" Jackie asked quietly.

Harry pulled a harsh face, which would in later years resemble something of a bitter sneer. "Aunt Petunia doesn't care what happens to me. She just wants me to stay out of the way."

"I'm sure that's not true, Harry, but you shouldn't go wandering around the town on your own. You might get lost, or someone might take you." Jackie continued.

"That's what they hope for," Harry tells them quietly, in a display of candidness and perception which surprises them both. "They've always encouraged me to speak to strangers, and to explore, but they don't tell Dudley to. None of the other kids at school are. They just want someone to take me away, and then they don't have to think about me any more!"

This last part was said in a sudden rush of breath, ending on a stifled sob. Simon stared at him, feeling suddenly very much out of his depth. "No, I'm sure that's not true—"

"It is! Nothing's ever good enough for them!" Harry cried. "I try so hard… but nothing's ever enough."

Simon noticed how much he was shaking, and took the hot chocolate from him, setting it down on the table so that he didn't spill it, and then took his small hands in his own. "Harry. Look at me, please."

When a pair of bright eyes settled on his, shimmering with unshed tears which he was repressing even then, he continued. "They are still your family though, Harry, and I'm sure they do care, but they have trouble showing it. I know how hard you try, and if truly, they do not appreciate you, then they don't know what a wonderful person they're missing out on." He took a deep breath then. "There are many people in this world who care a great deal for you, and two of them are sitting right here in this very room with you."

Harry blushed under the scrutiny, and praise, and could not meet his eyes any longer. Simon looked to Jackie, who smiled warmly, and made a hugging motion with her arms. "Come here," Simon said quietly, and gathered Harry from the sofa, into his arms. The boy buried his head into his chest, and held onto him tightly. "It's okay, we're here." Simon said, looking as mystified by his words and comfort as Harry must have felt. He could not remember the last time he had offered anyone else any kind of consolation. All he could do was tighten his hold a little, even as Harry tightened his, and run his fingers soothingly through Harry's hair.

"I think he's fallen asleep," Simon ventured, some time later. Harry's breathing had fallen into a regular, deeper pattern, and the shaking he had felt had abated, along with his iron grip on his shirt. "Jackie, what am I going to do?"

"Document this?" she suggested. Simon glared. "More immediately? I don't know. Take him home – you can't just keep him here. Perhaps let him know that he's welcome to call on you if he wishes, as he seems to do with the other townsfolk. I don't know what else there is to be done."

She shrugged then, and turned her gaze back to his. "You did a wonderful job under such unlikely circumstances. He seems to trust you a great deal, and take your words as a certainty."

Simon snorted self-depreciatively. "I'm not sure I deserve the honour. This whole episode has left me feeling empty inside. I don't feel like I can save him, the way he needs to be."

"Just take it one day at a time. There's nothing else you can do for now." She sighed, and ran her eyes over Harry. "He's far too young to be dealing with something like this, and I'm far too old."

"Far too old? You're only – what? – fifty-eight, fifty-nine?" Simon suggested innocently.

"You cheeky so-and-so!" Jackie gasped, swatting him lightly around the head. "I'll have you know that I'm forty-six!"

He raised an eyebrow. "And for how long have you been forty-six?"

The laughter in his chest stirred Harry, who blinked and looked up at him uncertainly.

"Well hello again, you have been doing a lot of sleeping today, haven't you?" Jackie said, with a kind smile.

Harry blushed, and bit his lip. "I-uh…" He moved slightly in Simon's arms, but seemed uncertain as to whether to bury his head into the man's chest, or whether to spring up and run away. His decision was made when he felt Mr Glass' arms hold him a little more tightly, and run through his hair again in a motion he had seen Uncle Vernon do to Dudley when he was feeling upset. He fought the smile that was working its way onto his face.

"I think we need to be getting you home," Jackie said to him. "It's still raining, so I'll give you a lift in my car. It's the blue one outside. Why don't I go get the engine started, while you say goodbye to Mr Glass?"

Harry nodded, and watched her leave. He saw the quick flash of a smile she sent to his teacher, but was uncertain as to how it was meant to be interpreted.

"I'm not angry with you for coming here today," Mr Glass said quietly, loosening his arms so that he could get back to his unsteady legs, "but I am worried about you. I wasn't lying when I said that lots of people care a great deal for you, and I want to be able to do anything I can to help you. You met Claire, right?"

Harry looked up at him sharply at the mention of her name. He nodded once.

"She wants me to make sure you're happy and safe, and I'm going to do my best to make sure that you are. I just want you to know that you're welcome here, whenever you want, and I know how you call in to see other people in town when your aunt allows you to play out, and you're welcome to do so here, if you wish. It's not far out of the way, as long it's daylight and someone knows where you are." Mr Glass finished, and Harry was looking up at him with wide, staring eyes.

"I just…" his teacher began, and then cut himself off. "I just want the chance to prove myself to you. To prove that I can be someone you can trust and rely upon. How does that sound?"

Harry thought that Mr Glass looked more exhausted than he sounded, and he sounded rather tired to him. His words carried the potential for so much hope and happiness, it was all he could do to keep a level head about the whole thing, and remind himself that, though Mr Glass was amazing, he was only one man. A man with faults, like every other man. This line of thinking was all that kept him sane sometimes; Uncle Vernon was only a man, and one day, he would be a man, too, and could leave this man behind.

Unsure how to answer, he thought of the only thing that had stuck clearly in his mind from the moment he said it. "I'll come and visit you again very soon then, Mr Glass, sir," he told him quietly.

They walked to the front door together, where they could see Jackie waiting in the car outside. Simon pressed a hand to Harry's shoulder. "I'll see you again soon, Harry." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book. "I'm afraid that I didn't have time to wrap it, but it's my Christmas present to you, nevertheless."

Harry took the book, barely able to see the title for the tears, which shimmered in his eyes. _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. Lost for words, he flung himself around his teacher's knees, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," he whispered, before racing down the steps and through the garden gate. A bright red car pulled up on the other side of the road, and Harry waved at it. "Hello, Mr Jack!" and then he was gone, Jackie's car pulling back out of the street and disappearing from view.

Even from this distance, Simon could see that Jack was gaping. He got out of the car, and ran through the rain to the house. "What the hell have I missed?" he demanded, pulling his jacket off, and dropping his bag on the floor.

Simon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Come on in and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

A/N: I don't cope well with writing this kind of relationship-building scene. I'm wary of Simon being to open to a seven year-old, but at the same time, feel like he'd want to build his trust with honesty and openness. Your thoughts are, as always, appreciated.


	12. True to his Word

Author's Note: So yeah, I'm an idiot. Two months thinking, "God, I really need to free up some time and write a new chapter!" and I come to look at the story again, and to my surprise, there's already a chapter and a half written! I'd forgotten about having done it, and once I went over it, I had to do some serious re-jigging, so it's a bit choppy, for which I apologise, but I couldn't figure out a way to solve it, and so gave up, basically. Hoping to get the next chapter up next week, especially since I've already got half written...

Also, I just wanted to say that, even though I'm not the best for replying to reviews, I have been reading them and taking them into account, and more than once I've taken someone's ideas they've mentioned and put them into the story where I felt appropriate, when I've read a review and thought "Hell fire, you're right, what the hell was I thinking?!" or "You're a genius! That's what's going to happen!" I just wanted to say that, so that you know reviews aren't only good to me for encouragement and con-crit. I appreciate the time you've taken to write them. And now I'll shut up. :)

* * *

Chapter Twelve - True to his Word

"I want you to go to the butchers and fetch this for me," Aunt Petunia barked, pushing a small scrap of paper into Harry's outstretched hand. "I expect to see a receipt when you come back with the change as well," she added, handing him also a twenty pound note.

"Then what would you like me to do, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked quietly.

She narrowed her eyes. There were many chores she could set him before Christmas, to make sure the house was clean and bright for Marge's arrival, but if she told him to do as he pleased, she could have the house to herself and Dudley, and spend some quality time with her son without thinking of the freak smearing the windows he was cleaning, or spilling the water he was using for mopping. Frankly, she'd be glad when he was older and could work effectively, without supervision. Though she'd be happier still when he was old enough to leave and never come back.

The boy was still looking up to her with her sister's wide, bright eyes. She grit her teeth angrily. "Whatever you want, just stay outside for a while."

She was too angry to think that this was practically a reward for Harry, and she didn't stop to watch him leave the house with her money and instructions. Only in passing, did she notice that the braising steak she had sent the boy for had appeared in the fridge, and when the boy himself didn't reappear until the following day, she didn't really care, as long as he had the change from the steak.

* * *

Harry was true to his word, Simon would give him that. A couple of days after he'd found the child sleeping on his porch, Harry had returned to the house. In a more orthodox manner, too: he had knocked on the door, firstly, and had remained awake for the duration of the day.

"Simon, why is Harry in your house?" Jack asked, when he came down the stairs to see Harry curled up on the sofa, examining the room eagerly, whilst Simon made a cup of tea for them, and poured a glass of juice for their younger guest.

"I told him he could visit me, if he wished," Simon said, with a shrug. "Though I didn't really think he'd come back, let alone so soon."

Jack didn't look too confused. "I didn't realise you'd told him he could. Not surprising though. You're his understanding teacher, and he's the miserable child with the questionable upbringing. I fail to see why you're surprised."

He took his mug from the worktop, and went to sit with Harry in the living room. "Hello, Mr Jack."

"Hey there, Har," Jack said with an unnaturally bright smile. "You don't need to call me Mr, though. Just Jack is fine."

"Okay, Jack," Harry offered, hesitantly. "How are you?"

"I'm great thanks, and how are you?"

"Good, thank you."

"Are you looking forward to Christmas?" Jack asked. "Do you think Santa will bring you anything nice this year?"

Harry looked shocked. "Uncle Vernon said that Father Christmas doesn't bring presents for freaks with no parents, but that if I'm good, they might give me something."

Jack was aware he was staring, but had no real idea how to proceed at this point.

"What kind of thing might they give you for Christmas, do you think?" Simon asked, swooping in and sitting himself opposite Jack and Harry.

Harry thought back for a moment. "Last year, they gave me some socks, I think. I don't remember very well. What do you want for Christmas?" he asked, suddenly, turning the conversation back on them.

"Books, mainly," Simon offered. "What about you, Jack?"

Jack still had a vaguely shell-shocked look to him, which he often wore around Harry. "Uh, a new car."

"What's wrong with the one you've got?" Harry asked, glancing through the window and his bright red sports car that was sitting outside the house.

Simon smiled. "It's a bit conspicuous around the town."

"Uh, do you know what 'conspicuous' means?" Jack asked Harry. The boy nodded.

"It means it stands out a lot," he said. At Jack's confused look, he added, "Ms Roberts told me when I didn't understand it in a book."

"Harry reads a lot," Simon explained to him.

Harry nodded, and then brightened suddenly. "Mr Glass got me a book for Christmas!" he told Jack happily. Then a look of confusion crossed his face. "Are you called Mr Glass as well then?"

Jack didn't know what to say, and frowned a bit. "I suppose so, but you don't need to call me that."

"He could ask people to call him 'Mr Glass' though," Simon added.

"Well, yeah, but I don't. I'm not a teacher or anything, and you call people Mr-something if you're trying to be really polite and you don't know them very well," Jack said, "or at least, I do, anyway."

Harry frowned. "But I don't know you very well."

"You know me well enough, kiddo," Jack said, reaching forward and ruffling Harry's hair.

Simon watched their interaction carefully. It wasn't often that Harry could interact with someone who was – without offence to Jack – more on his own level. Jack had no authority over him, and behaved like he was younger than Harry did for the most part. When Jack touched him physically, and unexpectedly, he froze suddenly, shock exaggerating his features. Just before Simon could more or do something to make Harry more comfortable again, like dragging Jack away from him, the expression was gone, and the surprise morphed into something more akin to contentment when he realised he wasn't about to be hurt.

Simon smiled faintly. He hadn't thought of it until that moment, but for the first time, he realised the possibility that having Harry interacting with people like Jack, who weren't authoritative, and could just be friends without needing anything from him, could be a positive influence on him.

After that, he took a step back from the conversation and let Harry and Jack chatter between each other. Jack seemed happy enough, and interested in talking to the child. He had never seen Jack interact with children, but from the smile on Jack's face, he got the feeling he liked it. He held back a snort at the idea of him one day having his own children though – Jack as a father was simultaneously too horrifying and entertaining to contemplate for long.

Every now and again, when the conversation lulled, he would speak a little, or Harry would turn to him and valiantly try to keep him involved on occasion, but for the most part, he was happy observing and sitting on the sidelines.

It had been mid-afternoon when Harry had come to them, and when it came close to six o'clock, Jack complained of starvation, and Harry hid a smile.

"Would you like to stay for tea, Harry?" Simon asked. His affirmative was given immediately, and without reserve. The last couple of hours had definitely put him at his ease with both of them, Simon realised. Before, he might have wondered at being unwelcome or burdensome, but Jack had a way with people that he admired.

Jack pulled out his phone and was ordering pizza even as Harry accepted his offer. "What kind of pizza do you like, Har?" Jack asked. Harry shrugged.

"I've never had pizza before," he said quietly.

"Okay, we'll have one with everything on, one margarita, and one pepperoni please," Jack said into the phone.

"He's getting a pizza with lots of things on, and in case you don't like it, he's getting one that's just cheese on tomato," Simon explained to Harry.

"It's going to be ten minutes," Jack said, "and fifteen quid, with the coleslaw and chips and stuff too."

Simon looked a bit bemused. "A pizza each, and more besides? How much are you planning on eating?"

He shrugged easily. "I can always eat it for breakfast. Anyway, Harry can help me eat it all." He grinned at Harry, who smiled tentatively back.

Simon set the table, repeatedly telling Harry he didn't require help doing so, whilst Jack looked around half-heartedly for his wallet, before finding it in his pocket.

Later, Simon would reflect how normal the evening had felt, and how natural it was to have Harry and Jack sitting at his table, bickering mildly over various topics as Harry gained more confidence in their presence. He found himself wishing that every evening could be spent in such carefree happiness, and was surprised with himself when he realised what he was thinking.

He glanced sadly at the photos on the mantelpiece. It felt like forever since he'd felt contentment within himself. Simon knew that he had a long way to go yet – he was far from saving Harry permanently, and he was hoping to settle into his job a little more after this year – but overall, he felt happy in himself in a way he hadn't for a few years. He forced himself to look away from the cheerful woman smiling out at him, her arm wrapped around his own neck in the photo, and focused instead on finding the remote control for the television.

With a quick press of a button, the room fell silent, except for the soft sound of breathing. He smiled fondly at the sofa, where Jack and Harry had fallen asleep together. It was already ten, and he had no desire to take Harry home. He resented the idea of phoning the Dursleys to tell them where their nephew was, but at the same time, knew that he could hardly keep the boy with him without letting them know he was safe.

Quickly, he flicked through his organiser for the number he'd got written down for them. He took a deep breath, and dialled.

"Good evening, Dursley residence," a gruff voice said pleasantly enough on the other end of the phone. In the background he thought he could hear someone asking who it was.

"Ah, good evening, my name is Mr Glass, I'm your nephew's teacher, and I was just letting you know he's here and safe with me," Simon said, holding the desk for support, and keeping his voice low enough so as not to wake his two sleeping guests.

"The boy's with you?" Mr Dursley snorted. "I hadn't even noticed he was missing."

Simon frowned. This conversation confirmed everything dreadful he had ever thought about that family, as far as he was concerned. "Would you like me to drive him home, or he's welcome to stay here, and I'll run him over first thing tomorrow?"

"He can stay with you. Good evening, Mr Glass."

Simon heard faintly, as Mr Dursley was putting the phone down, the distinct sound of Petunia's shrill voice, "If he could keep him forever, I'd be happier." He frowned again, as the phone clicked, and the line went dead. He found himself thinking clearly, for the first time, that he'd be more than happy for Harry to stay there with him forever, as well.

Sighing, he placed the receiver back in its holder, and crossed the room. Roughly, he shook Jack awake, but gently, slipped his arms around Harry. The boy awoke slightly. "Where am I?"

"You're with me and Jack," Simon explained. "You're staying the night, if that's all right. I'll just put you in the guest room, and I'll leave a light on the landing for you."

Harry mumbled something that sounded like an assent, before falling back into sleep in his arms.

"Looks like I'm on the sofa tonight then," Jack said, trying, and failing, to sound put out at giving his bed up for Harry. "As long as you're making breakfast in the morning."

* * *

The next morning, Harry blinked when the sunlight that had been moving slowly around the room finally made it to his eyes. He awoke with a strange feeling of disorientation, which only increased when he realised that he wasn't curled up in his small, dark cupboard, but was lying in a comfortable bed in a well-lit room. He shot upright in the bed, and stared around. It was a good few seconds before memory caught up with him, and he remembered being put to bed the night before by Mr Glass.

His clothes were folded neatly at the end of the bed, and he could faintly recall curling up in one of Jack's t-shirts instead of pyjamas. From downstairs, he could hear voices – Mr Glass and Jack, he realised after a moment. Rather than the alarm he would have expected to feel at being a nuisance to these kind men, and the worry that Aunt Petunia would have a fit when he got home, he felt only contentment at being here. He pushed away all thoughts of distress, and quickly pulled on his clothes before quietly running down the stairs.

"Morning, Harry! Bacon sandwiches for breakfast, yeah?" Jack asked brightly from the sofa, whilst Mr Glass was cooking at the stove.

"That sounds wonderful, thank you," Harry replied, taking the glass of orange juice that was offered to him without question.

"Good morning, I hope you slept well?" Mr Glass asked him warmly. He nodded happily.

He curled back up on the sofa where he had been sitting last night, with Jack sitting next to him. Harry couldn't think of a time when he'd felt more content. It was with a heavy heart that he contemplated going home later that day.

Next to him, Jack was pressing buttons on the small machine he recognised as his mobile phone. Harry had never used one, but Dudley had been nagging for one ever since he'd learned of their existence. Jack held it to his ear and listened to a message, though Harry couldn't hear anything specific, it was a woman's voice on the other end of the phone.

He watched as the man's face changed colour from the rosy cheerfulness he knew, to a paler, more anxious complexion.

"Jack, what is it?" Simon asked, putting a bacon sandwich in front of both of them, and joining them on the sofa. He wasn't sure what had caused his bother to frown at his phone like that. Whatever the message was, it clearly wasn't good news.

His brother sighed, and put the phone down. "Nothing of any real importance, just an inconvenience that I'm going to have to sort out today."

Simon nodded, not believing him, but not wanting to push further. Only twenty minutes later, when Jack had eaten, brushed his teeth and had a whirlwind of a shower, he wasn't surprised when his brother left quickly and didn't return until late that evening.

"Well, since your aunt didn't say what time she wanted you back, what would you like to do today?" he asked Harry warmly.

* * *

"I don't think that having a dictaphone recording of Harry's distress is going to do me all that much good," Simon said, almost apologetically. It was already late in the day, and he had just given Harry a lift back home, to their mutual distaste. It had been a welcome reprieve to spend the day enjoying himself with Harry, and it had felt almost painful to see him go back home. He had only just thought to show Jack the recordings he had taken the night Harry first appeared at his home, and Jack looked distraught, but he thought that much of that was to do with him having not been present for Harry. "It's not as if he says anything incriminating…"

"That's because you don't shut up and listen to him!" Jack barked, startling Simon. "_Oh, Harry, I'm sure your family isn't pushing you away…_ Well he's not going to tell you what's going on when you constantly tell him he's wrong, is he?"

He slammed the dictaphone down on the table, having just listened to a recording of the entire conversation.

Having gone into the kitchen to prepare something to warm Harry up, he'd spotted the dictaphone and camera that Jack had left lying around. Instinctively, he'd picked up the former, putting it into his pocket after switching it on. Grimly, he thought that, even if it hadn't been useful this time around, it was at least good practice.

Simon looked flustered. "I—I… you're right," he admitted, sighing into his tea. "But you just don't think when you're dealing with something like this. All I wanted was to calm him down and make him feel better. I didn't think that maybe he'd feel better if he could tell someone about it."

"Especially when he knows that Petunia isn't around the corner," Jack agreed. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, with Simon desperately recreating a version of his conversation with Harry in which he listens and Harry tells him everything, all on tape.

"Where have you been, anyway?" Simon asked eventually.

"Home," Jack answered, but there was something about the way he said it which had Simon wondering.

"Home?"

"Yeah… to see Mum and Dad."

Ah, there it was, Simon thought grimly. It had been years since Simon had paid them a visit, speaking to his father by the occasional, business-like letter, and to his mother more frequently with more personal conversations over the phone. He was surprised that Jack had gone back to them. Though his brother was not on bad terms with them, as Simon had been for some time, he had recently taken such an odd liking to Simon's way of life that he had begun to wonder if something had happened between them.

"Why?"

Jack watched his brother, knowing this was a dangerous topic for both of them. "To see them, really," he explained. "It wasn't until that long ago that I lived at home with them, and it's quite nice to go back sometimes."

"They approved of your moving out and going to university?" Simon asked, not without an edge of bitterness. Jack was not surprised by it.

"Yes, but what I did wasn't quite the same as you, really, was it?" Jack said, cautiously. "I'm just furthering my education so that I can enter the family business, when I'm older. You turned your back on the family, forfeiting your fortune and place as the first-born son to become a lowly teacher. That's the official version anyway."

Simon watched him through narrowed eyes. He wasn't sure where Jack was going with this, and the mention of his supposed abandonment was almost more than he could bear.

"Really, I hope you know it's not like that," Jack said, altering his tone from one cool and in control, to his usual carefree way. "I know why you left. It's oppressive in that manor, with the weight of the family's expectations resting on you, and I can't imagine bearing it as you did. I—I'm not as strong as you. I can't just leave them outright. I'd rather play the good little heir for now, and perhaps, when I've finished my education, then maybe I'll be brave enough to take on the cutthroat business from Dad, or to make my own way, like you're doing."

Simon watched him carefully, for any sign of deceit. His family wasn't exactly one to be truthful if they could gain something from the opposite, without revealing their emotions. He couldn't tell if Jack was just doing this to stay in his good graces and to – to what? To coerce him to go back to the fold? To take the pressure back from him? That wasn't Jack. He'd just leave, like he'd done. Honour be damned.

Then perhaps – he barely dared to think – Jack was being truthful, and he looked up to him as his older brother. He could imagine Jack not having strength enough to leave the place entirely, cutting them all out as he had done for a time, until he'd been sought out. Jack was the youngest of the three of them, after all.

Simon took a deep breath. Sometimes, all you could do was put your trust in people, he thought. "So, how is everyone?"

Jack smiled, apparently relieved to have his brother's forgiveness for straying home. "Everyone's fine. Dad's as caught up in figures and business as ever – it was all he'd talk about when he wasn't storming about. But Mum seems happy. She's started writing again, and was going on about Gwyneth's baby all the time, and looking pointedly at Florence as she did it." Jack paused to roll his eyes dramatically. "I swear, poor Flo's going to have a fit if Mum doesn't leave her alone about it. Just because every cousin we've got is a baby-machine, doesn't mean she has to be!"

Simon smiled faintly. He was protective of his little sister as well, but he supposed he might have been more so if it had been he who was her twin instead. After all, when he'd left, it had been firmly in the knowledge that they would revile him, but that Jack would look after Flo all the more for his absence.

"How is she anyway?"

"Flo? She's … ha," he laughed, a short miserable laugh. "Well, I lied when I said that everything was fine at home, like I'd said it was. Flo's… well, she's not great. But it's something she wants to talk to you about in person. I know you speak to her all the time on the computer, and on the phone and stuff, but this is the kind of thing that needs to be said in the same physical space, you know?"

Jack smiled slightly, but it wasn't one that touched his eyes. Simon felt the tendrils of fear uncurling in his stomach, as he hadn't for a long time.

"Oh god, just tell me what it is, Jack," Simon said, leaning forward.

Jack just shook his head. "I can't. I promised her that I'd tell you to expect her to call at the house on New Year's Day, and I think she wants to stay for a few days, so get the guestroom ready, but I couldn't tell you anything about what's going on. I think she's about ready to jump ship though, to make a full set."

Simon frowned at the non sequitur of analogies. "It's nothing immediate then? She's not in any danger?"

Jack frowned. "You think I'd be here calmly chatting if she were in danger? I'd have phoned you from the house, and charter you a bloody jet to get there!"

Simon snorted. "Do you even know how you'd go about chartering a jet?"

Jack smiled then, the tension broken. "It can't be that difficult if you know how. But I don't think that she could get away for Christmas day since it's only what…" he checked the calendar behind him, "ooh, four days away, but I think she's hoping for a slap up dinner and some sparkling conversation for the new year."

"I'm cooking, I presume?" Simon said, flatly, watching his brother grin brightly in the affirmative.

"And I'll provide the sparkling conversation!" Simon didn't bother to hold back his derisive snort.

Jack started chattering away in the background again, but Simon wasn't really listening. He was thinking once more of Harry, and how nice it had been to have him in his home for a couple of days. He thought of Florence coming to stay, and hoped that she would find him as agreeable as he and Jack did. He wasn't sure why, but it mattered to him what Florence and Harry would think of one another.


	13. The Glasses

Chapter Thirteen

It was the coldest day they'd had for a while, Jack reflected idly, turning up the heater in his car as high as it would go, and zipping his jacket up. It was the first day in three months that he was going back to the family home in Oxford, and he reflected on the long motorway drive, that really he ought to have caught the train. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, and then stopped himself. It was a nervous habit that his sister, Florence, was bound to tell him off for.

It was for Florence that he was travelling home.

"Hello, Jack? I'm in trouble… If…" she'd sighed on the other end of the phone then. "If you could manage to come home, even just for a day, I'd really appreciate it."

The message had been left on his phone the previous evening, and so when he'd received it the very next morning, there he was, driving at breakneck speed down the motorway to get back to his twin sister. She hadn't said more than that, but whatever it was, it must be serious. Flo wasn't prone to exaggeration.

Not for the first time, he wished that he'd explained to Simon before leaving so abruptly. It wasn't that he feared that his older brother would wonder at his disappearance for his safety – he had always been rather flighty – but that he ought to know their sister was having some kind of crisis, and he was returning for that. He wanted Simon to know that he wasn't returning as some kind of desertion of him, and he hadn't just upped and left him and Harry that morning for a minor reason.

It was too late now, he chided himself sometime later, swerving off the motorway, and nearly missing the turn all together. He couldn't phone Simon before he got to the house, having ingeniously let his phone battery die, and once he was home, he would be preoccupied with whatever had upset Flo. Simon would just have to understand, he thought, and besides, he was so busy with Harry and the tangle that came with him, he might not even notice his absence.

Even as his whole life changed, the house never did. The driveway was just as long as it had always felt as a child, the gates just as forbidding. The house itself was the huge mansion that his school friends had always coveted – far too large for the three who lived there now, and their assorted help. The gardens were as pristine as ever, and the surly old gardener, Mr Wise, was still pottering around, with a glare for anyone who dared to walk on the grass. Even now, at the ripe old age of eighty-two, the old man could still put the fear of God in him.

He pulled up sharply, nearly smashing the front of his car into a stone fountain at the very front of the house. He felt the disapproving looks of the housekeeper and the butler inside. No sooner had he pulled the keys from the engine and stepped out of the car, and Benson had appeared beside him, hand extended for his car keys.

"Thank you," Jack said, placing the keys into his palm, and as an after thought, "Good to see you again."

The old butler looked surprised for a moment, before hiding the expression, and taking his car to the garages around the side.

"Good morning, Master Jack," Betty said once he reached the house. Her tone was disapproving, as it had always been, and the way she said his name reminded him suddenly of Harry's cheery 'Hello, Mr Jack'. Somehow, Little Whinging was becoming more of a home to him with Simon and Harry, than his own family estate.

He was lead through the maze of passages, which he had so loved as a child, until they reached the smaller and brighter drawing room on the first floor. The door opened, and he barely had time to take anything in when he was nearly bowled over.

"Florence! What the devil…? Oh, Jack my boy, good to see you again." His father's voice was another unchanged factor in his entire life. Brisk, gruff, but filled with kindness when used in their presence that was never heard elsewhere.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" Flo cried, when she finally pulled away from him. "Though I'm glad you got my message, I didn't mean for you to appear before lunch the today. It could have waited."

A snort came from the large desk near the window. Their father. "Yes, another seven months or so, I imagine."

His sister bit her lip. "Let's take a walk around the gardens, shall we?"

Sure enough, they received a dark look from Mr Wise when they passed him by, slipping into the more secluded section of the gardens, where flowers and shrubbery grew higher and more wildly than the areas closer to the house.

"I'm pregnant."

Jack felt his jaw slacken. "Well that's…"

"—and David's left me."

Florence was still speaking, but it was as if most of the world had been drained of colour and feeling. All Jack knew was his own rage.

A hard shove in his chest brought him back to the real world, where his sister was looking at him with tear-filled eyes. "I knew I should have gone to Simon first."

Jack sneered. "You'll never get him back in this house."

"Not even for me?" she asked quietly. Jack did not reply, honestly not knowing whether or not Simon would ever voluntarily set foot over the threshold ever again, for any reason.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice more subdued than the anger he felt.

"I don't know."

"I think you should get rid of it," Jack told her. "You're nineteen, a student, and you're alone. You've your career and the rest of your life to think of. You can't let a mistake like this ruin the rest of your life!"

Florence looked down at their feet, tracing their outline in the grass. "I know. Logically, I suspect that's the thing to do. I've got plans for my life, that don't include raising a child alone… but when I found out I was pregnant, I was happy…"

Jack opened his mouth to interrupt, but she held up a hand to forestall him. "I just thought… well, maybe this is the way it's meant to be. I've got David, and I'll have his baby, and I can do my degree during my pregnancy, and part-time when the baby arrives… and I can still be everything that I want to be, with this little boy or girl in my life as well."

Silence descended upon them.

"The only thing that's changed is that now I don't have David, and all I can think to myself is, why should this child not have a chance at life just because one man has left mine?"

"It's just a few cells that you and Dave threw together during one foolish night," Jack cried. "I know it will be a baby at some point, but this is your life we're talking about! Why don't you just wait until the time is right… when you're with someone you want to be with for the rest of your life, and you've established yourself as your own person first… You've never even lived outside the walls of this house! How could you raise a child!"

The tears trailed down her cheeks at his outburst, and instantly, Jack felt like if he could have done any injury to himself to take this burden from his sister, he would do.

"What do Mum and Dad say about this?" he asked her.

"Dad thinks abortion is one of the great evils of the world…" she snorted then. "He would do, being a man, wouldn't he? But Mum – she says she can understand where I'm coming from with my thoughts, and whatever decision I make… she said she'd fully support me."

Their reactions were what Jack would have guessed. Their mother had always been understanding, especially of her only daughter, and their father had always been strict and of his own mind in all matters.

"You should speak to Simon," Jack finally offered, seeing that there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation in any capacity except offer his opinion, as he already had done.

"Why? What can he say that no one else has?" she asked, sullenly.

"He can tell you what he thinks is right for you… and he's always been good at putting a new spin on things, you know that." Jack paused then. "Besides… he is a teacher, he spends a lot of time with young children, and he's—he's kind of looking after a child himself at the moment."

Florence turned to him and frowned. Her wavy blonde hair twirled around her in confusion like she was experiencing, the wind twisting her as her thoughts did. "He's looking after a child? What on earth are you talking about, Jack?"

Jack pulled his jacket around him. It was always cold here. "Why don't we go back up to the house and I'll tell you all about it there. I'm sure Mum and Dad are dying to hear about their evil son, after all."

He offered her his arm, and together they walked back up to the house.

* * *

"I'm not sure I understand you, Jack," his mother said, a frown creasing her brow. They had exhausted all the usual topics of conversation over the last hour or so, and had continued to talk of Jack's degree and his current life over lunch. It couldn't be helped that at some point, Simon's name and life cropped up.

"He's… uh, well this is going to sound a little strange," Jack said, breaking off and looking around at his family nervously. After all, Simon might not even want them to know of his plight to save Harry.

"Oh do spit it out," his father said, with a long suffering sigh. Though both Florence and their mother, Hillary, appeared interested in his brother's life, their father still wanted any mention of his eldest child to be over as quickly as possible. His brows were furrowed, and behind his moustache, his mouth turned downwards in disapproval.

"Well, one of the young children he teaches, Harry, he's got this dreadful family… I mean, you wouldn't believe how poorly they treat him –" his voice rose at the thought of what the young boy might have been subjected to right at that moment. "—he's always covered in bruises, and he's scared to go home! Oh, and get this, he's this tiny, thin little kid, and he lives with his cousin who's the same age, and he's this huge, overfed whale of a boy!"

"Why does he live with his cousin?" Florence asked, breaking Jack's tirade, and flustering him in the process.

Jack blinked a few times. For a strange moment, he'd completely forgotten himself, and had lost control in front of his family. His controlled, cool family. For the first time, he took in the expressions of the assembled Glasses. His father's brows had furrowed further, and he seemed a little more irritated than he had been upon the mention of Simon's name. Their mother held her expression in her usual neutrality but he could see through to the genuine interest she had in both her sons, and a certain perplexedness at Jack's passion for the subject matter. And then there was Florence, ah Flo, upon whom he could always depend! She was smiling faintly, and waiting for him to continue, with that air of patience she'd always had. She did not judge him, or Simon, and appeared, if anything, vaguely amused by his ravings. It was unlike him.

"So," Florence repeated, "why does he live with his cousin?"

"He's an orphan," Jack said simply. He saw from the corner of his eye, his mother's hand go to her chest. There was nothing like orphaned children to stir the pity of Hillary Glass. "His parents died in a car crash when he was a baby, and he was left with an unwilling aunt and uncle. The way his aunt talks about him though, you'd think he were a criminal, not a sweet little boy."

"So this is Simon's project, is it? Saving little orphans from their own families, projecting his wish to have been saved from here as a child onto others now!" his father barked harshly. Jack winced as if struck. Perhaps telling them of Simon's doings had been a mistake.

"George!" Hillary snapped suddenly. "That's enough. You know perfectly well why Simon left. Don't start belittling his life because you're still sore about that."

Jack and Florence openly gaped at the spectacle of their mother defying their father, and continued to do so after George had slammed the door behind him, scattering the papers from his desk across the room.

"I'm sorry that you had to see that," their mother said quietly. "Jack, tell me more of Simon, please."

Jack did. He told them of the day he first met Harry in Little Whingeing, and of Simon's frustration with social services, the social worker Claire and her visits, his impressions of Harry's character, and the relationship dynamic he had observed between Harry and Simon.

"It's strange," Jack said thoughtfully, after all had lapsed into silence. "It's an awful business, and when you see Harry, sometimes it feels pretty harrowing, but it's transformed Simon. It's like he's not been so alive since…"

"Since Caroline died." Florence finished where her brother did not, pushing images of a poor, frail young woman from her mind.

"It's purpose," Jack said, "the purpose of doing something with his life. He can't stand doing nothing with himself. I think maybe in the beginning, Harry was a mystery to be solved, and then he was someone to save."

"And now?" Hillary asked.

"Now, he's a young boy he cares about, and he's frustrated because he can't do enough to help him." Jack finished, resting his head on his hand, and looking wistfully outside.

"And what of you?" Florence asked, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Me?"

"You seem quite embroiled in this yourself," their mother remarked, "enough to give unguarded speeches in front of your father and upset him."

He blew his hair from his eyes and looked at them. Upon seeing no condemnation, he replied, "It's hard not to get involved. Simon talks about this 'Harry' and you kind of think 'Oh well, poor kid, hope his fortune changes', and then you meet him, and he's a sweet little boy, and when you think of him scared and hurt, it makes you feel sick inside. You ought to meet him."

The last sentence was tacked onto his short speech at such short notice, it surprised even Jack. Both women smiled at the idea however.

"I'd like to meet him," Florence said, "and it would be lovely to see Simon. I've got some things to talk over with him so perhaps you might let Simon know that I'll be at his on New Years Day?"

Jack nodded dumbly. Florence did not often leave the house further than a five mile radius.

"And I'll be staying a few days, tell him," she added.

"But how will you get to Surrey?" their mother asked her.

"I'll get the train."

"I'll drive you."

Hillary blinked and smiled. "Thank you for your offer, Jack."

Florence also smiled, and mouthed a quick 'thank you'.

"Will you be staying tonight?" Hillary asked hopefully.

Jack thought of his father upstairs, enraged that not only one son had left him, but his other appeared to be going the same way. He imagined the strained dinner conversation, and breakfast the next day. He envisioned a reconciliation with his father, in which he defended himself and Simon with such eloquence that they were forgiven their sins and welcomed back into the fold, faults and all. He saw more clearly, his father refusing to listen and throwing him from the house, Florence appearing anxious, and her hand resting upon her stomach. The latter was the more likely scenario, and he wouldn't cause any more discord than he had already. Sometimes, there was no reasoning with George Glass, and there was no choice but to walk away. He understood his brother better then than he ever had.

"No, in fact I was just going to have another cup of tea, and be on my way," he replied eventually. Neither woman showed any sign of surprise.

He bid his mother and sister goodbye, welcoming them warmly to Surrey if they so wished it, and showed himself out. He walked the grand hallways as if it were the most natural thing in the world, instead of an oddly uncomfortable experience.

When he reached the front doorway, he came across his sister once more, clambouring out of a concealed doorway.

She cursed softly when she saw him, a smile gracing her features. "I was supposed to be standing nonchalantly at the door when you arrived," she explained. She was slightly out of breath.

"You're not as quick through those old passages as you used to be," he joked, thinking of their childhood adventures behind the grandeur.

She stepped closer to him and took his hand in hers, squeezing it warmly. "I just wanted to tell you that it's good to see _you_ alive and with purpose again, too."

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then she was gone, disappearing into the passageway more nimbly and gracefully than she'd left it. He frowned at her words, playing them back in his head.

At the door, his keys were handed to him by a forgettable member of staff. His car was already in front of the house. He reflected when he sat down inside, how simultaneously relieving and distressing it was to leave his family home.

Pushing all thoughts of home from his mind as best he could, he thought instead of Simon back at his house, with Harry. In the last few days, Harry had spent any time he had available at Simon's house, a place that Jack was quickly beginning to think of as home. It felt natural to be there with the two of them, like some kind of dysfunctional family, and he anticipated returning to them.

He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, still feeling a thrill of pleasure at the sound the car made on the gravel driveway. Jack turned for one last look at the house, and for a moment, he thought he saw his sister in one of the upper windows, smiling down at him. When he glanced back again, however, he couldn't be sure if she had ever been there at all.

That was one good thing that had come of his journey, at least; he had persuaded Florence to leave their home and come many a mile to Little Whingeing to visit their brother. She had never been so far from their home, and indeed, he didn't think she'd gone any further than the confines of the gardens in several years now – all her friends from the village came to the house to visit her. One by one, they were dropping away to see to their own lives, she had said. It was long since the time she needed to start her own life, and Jack was sure that Simon would be able to help her on her way.


	14. Happy New Year

Chapter Fourteen - Happy New Year

On New Year's Day morning, Simon reflected that the last week had done nothing if not flown by. Harry had been around at the house at every moment he could escape from his home, and though Simon had tried to engage him a few times to talk of his homelife, Harry just hadn't been interested. Instead, he had spent time with Harry and Jack playing in the house, and walking in the woods and the fields nearby. He wasn't entirely sure what small children would enjoy doing, but after the success of their afternoon in the park, and the greater success of their spontaneous day out at the beach, cold as it was on Christmas Eve, Simon felt more than comfortable with Harry in his home, and in his life.

When he awoke on Christmas Day morning, it had felt strange not to have Harry there with them. He had helped them decorate the tree that stood proudly in his lounge, and to know that Harry wouldn't be looking upon it on Christmas saddened him. He had cooked a small dinner for himself and Jack, and though both had enjoyed it, and had drunk more than their share of wine, he couldn't help but agree when Jack remarked, "You know, I wish Harry were here."

Harry had returned the day after Boxing Day, slightly subdued, but nevertheless, he was there, and he brightened the house without realising. He had only appeared for an hour, but it was more than long enough for Simon to sit and tell Harry of his uneventful Christmas, and for Harry to brighten and to speak of things other than of his own Christmas.

It had been strange when he'd returned Harry to his home, and once Harry had waved goodbye and opened the front door, Mrs Dursley had come storming out and up to his car.

"Listen you, I know that you've been keeping an eye on the boy, like some of the other townsfolk do, but Vernon's sister's here for a few more days, and we'd really rather the boy weren't around…"

"There is nothing I'd love more than to take him off your hands," Simon replied honestly, if more than a little affronted by her careless regard for her nephew.

"Good," she said briskly. "If you'd retrieve him tonight, and bring him back after the New Year, we'd be grateful."

She hadn't so much as said goodbye, and she was gone, storming back up to the house, and dragging Harry inside with her.

That was how Harry had come to spend a few welcome days reprieve with his teacher, and with Jack, so he wasn't surprised when his headache doubled at the sound of his brother and his ward downstairs clattering around and making breakfast, by the sounds of it.

He staggered into the bathroom and gratefully took a long drink of water, though it wasn't quite enough to dislodge the mouldy sock that someone must have stuffed into his mouth whilst sleeping.

When he was sure that the sock was gone for good, he threw his dressing gown over the top of his pyjamas, and began a slow, and rather queasy walk downstairs. If he had his way, he'd go back to bed and stay there all day, but it was New Year's Day, and his sister, Florence would be appearing soon, and would probably expect dinner.

Downstairs, Harry laughed, and tried to stifle the sound, presumably remembering that his teacher was still in bed. "You're useless! You're going to burn the bacon, get off!"

Jack looked affronted. "I am not. Just because it's a little crispier than Simon usually likes, doesn't mean that it's burnt!"

"You've taken down the smoke detector to stop it waking him up!"

Jack snorted. "No, I just happen to think that Simon's so bad at cooking that it'd be going off several times a day if I left it there."

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well… That's funny because I've been here a few days, and I don't remember the smoke detector going off, and you only took it down this morning."

Jack huffed, and tried to hide a smile when Harry's mock thoughtfulness turned into a quick smile. "Of course, I'm amazed that you managed to get it down through all the smoke in the kitchen…!"

"Smoke?" Simon asked, "I don't smell any smoke?"

Harry smiled brightly upon seeing him. "That's because Jack had all the doors and windows open to clear it out."

Simon rolled his eyes, and started going through the cupboards to find the paracetamol. When he turned around, Jack was at his side holding out a glass of water, and Harry had taken his place by the stove.

"So, good night last night then?"

Simon swallowed the tablets before replying. "Uh yeah… I think so. Maggie was the only one who didn't drink more than her volume in alcohol, so hopefully everyone feels equally awful today."

"I don't understand," Harry piped up. "Why did everyone drink so much?"

Simon looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, unsure as how best to proceed. "It's just something that grown-ups do sometimes. It makes people behave unlike they usually do, and sometimes that can be enjoyable, unless you drink too much."

"And then it'll make you poorly, like Simon is today!" Jack finished.

Harry appeared pensive, and Simon couldn't help but wonder if his explanation had been a suitable one.

"It must be alcohol that Uncle Vernon drinks sometimes then," Harry said quietly, unaware of the way the tension rose in the room.

"What do you mean, Harry?" Simon asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack pulling the breakfast off the heat, and flicking the switch on the small dictaphone.

Harry frowned for a moment, as if weighing his next words before he spoke them. He looked to the two men in the room with him, and decided he could trust them. "Sometimes, Uncle Vernon sits in the lounge and drinks something from a bottle. It smells strange, and I don't like it. I can smell it on his breath afterwards and sometimes… on those nights…"

He broke off then, and looked down at his toes. So far, he'd done well in not mentioning the family that he came from, but sometimes, he just couldn't help himself. He wasn't even sure if this was something that his teacher would want to know, or that he wanted to tell him.

"Sometimes, he's angrier than usual. Sometimes, before he sends me to my cupboard, he—he'll hurt me, when I haven't done anything wrong. He never explains why he does it, he just does… maybe it's because of the alcohol, because it makes him behave differently." Harry took a deep breath, and next to him, unknowingly, Simon and Jack did the same.

Simon stared at him. There were just so many questions in that one statement that he wasn't entirely sure where to begin. "How does he hurt you?" Simon asked eventually.

Harry didn't look up at them. He was afraid that if he did, he would just see the contempt he saw in the Dursleys for him. They had both been so nice to him, but what if they agreed he was meant to be treated like that?

"He hits me mostly," he replied. "Sometimes, he pushes me into things, and slaps me for my carelessness. Sometimes, he grabs my neck and…" He broke off there, fighting back the tears that came.

Swiftly, Simon fell to his knees and pulled Harry into his arms. He could feel Harry shaking against him, and tightened his hold fractionally. "It's all right. You can tell us anything. We just want to help you," he whispered into Harry's hair.

After a few long moments, Harry pulled away. Strangely, he found himself feeling better for having told his kind teacher what Uncle Vernon could be like towards him. He wanted to tell him everything, but he was afraid. What if Aunt Petunia found out that she'd been telling people what went on in their house? She'd expressly forbidden him to speak of things that were 'family business'. But Mr Glass and Jack felt like family to him in a way that the Dursleys never had.

"It's terrifying when he grabs my neck," Harry whispered. "Sometimes, I can't breathe, and I wonder if… I wonder if that's it, and I'm going to die." He shivered then, and looked away.

"Does he hurt you when he's not been drinking?" Simon asked, still kneeling before Harry, and holding both his small hands in his own.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, but he says I deserve it then. He says that it's my own fault for being a Freak, and he's trying to stamp the weirdness out of me. Maybe I do deserve it. They're so kind to me… they've put a roof over my head, and feed me and clothe me, and I suppose it's all my fault that I can't be what they want me to be…"

Harry trailed off, his eyes distant, and his mind clearly elsewhere. Jack clenched his fists furiously, and held back to stop from screaming. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"You don't deserve any kind of cruelty. They're expected to do those things for you, and they're expected to accept you for who you are. There's nothing strange about you, Harry," Simon whispered. Harry didn't look convinced.

"What did you mean, when you said that Vernon sends you to your cupboard?" Jack asked, and Harry looked at him blankly.

"The cupboard under the stairs," Harry elaborated. "It's where I sleep."

"Don't you have a bedroom?" Simon asked, averting his eyes from Jack's livid face.

Harry shook his head. "Dudley has too much stuff, so he has two bedrooms, but because I don't really have anything, Aunt Petunia said I don't need any space, and so I sleep in the cupboard under the stairs," he explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Simon stared at Harry. He felt like all his strength had been taken away from him, and he could do nothing but kneel down, and hold Harry's hands, and stare at him. He had known that he was mistreated at home, that sometimes Vernon struck him hard enough to leave marks. He had known that he wasn't happy there, but to make him sleep in a cupboard? To make him believe he was different, and lesser than other people? It was obscene.

"Are you all right, Mr Glass?" Harry asked, cutting sharply through his thoughts. "Except that your hands are shaking."

He carefully pulled his hands from Harry's and stood up. "I'm fine thank you. I think we all need some breakfast, don't you?"

Jack nodded, and wordlessly put the kettle on, and got fresh food out to start over with the meal.

"If you're not feeling well, why don't you go sit down?" Harry asked, believing Simon's shaking to be to do with his alcohol-induced illness. "Jack and I can cook breakfast."

Simon smiled faintly. "Do you know how to cook?" he asked, getting out the orange juice for his young ward.

"A little bit. Sometimes, when Aunt Petunia isn't feeling well, I make breakfast for her and Dudley."

Simon sighed. It seemed like there was nothing he could say that wouldn't bring up terrible things to do with Harry's life at home, but he supposed there was nothing he could do about that. The abusive home he lived in was a huge part of Harry's life, and if he wanted to help him then he needed to find out everything he could about Harry's situation at home.

"How do you like your eggs?" Jack asked brusquely.

"Scrambled, please," Simon replied, and Harry looked politely blank, so he took that as a 'scrambled' as well.

"Hey, why don't you two go and watch the cartoons on TV and I'll make breakfast?" Jack suggested, and added quickly, upon seeing that Harry was about to protest, "After all, you're still not feeling well, are you, Si? And I'm sure you'd like some company in your illness."

Simon smiled warmly at his brother, and took Harry's hand without further struggle. "Come on, let's go sit down."

After breakfast had passed, and the table was cleared, the three of them sat watching television, with Harry sitting in the middle of the two men.

"What time are you going to pick up Flo?" Simon asked conversationally, knowing that his brother had already forgotten his promise to bring his sister over for lunch.

"Crap," was his only answer, and within moments, Jack had swallowed all his remaining coffee, put on his shoes, and thrown himself through the front door.

Harry held the familiar look of polite puzzlement he often got when he wasn't sure what was going on, but wasn't sure whether or not it was his place to ask for clarification.

"Florence is our sister, and she's coming for dinner today," Simon explained without being asked. "She's very nice, and I'm sure you'll like her immensely, and I'm also sure that she's going to like you just as much." He smiled confidently, knowing that Harry would need reassuring before meeting anyone new.

He picked up the now empty mugs from the coffee table, and took them back into the kitchen. While he knew that Harry wasn't looking, he quickly took hold of the dictaphone. It was still recording. He turned it off, and put it back on the shelf, having seen that it had copied their conversation perfectly. Thirty-nine minutes and thirty-four seconds, the display said. It had felt like hours of conversation, and yet that was all it had come down to, including the time it had taken them to make and eat their breakfast.

"Will you tell me about Florence, please?" Harry asked when he sat down again.

Simon nodded. "She's a very kind person. She's Jack's twin sister, though you wouldn't guess from the way they look. She's quite shy though, and she's not used to meeting new people either, so I'm sure you'll both get along very well. She'll be staying for a few days, I think, until we both go back to school."

It was late on in the afternoon by the time Jack had driven from Little Whingeing up to Oxford, and had returned with his sister, and a small bag of her belongings. In the meantime, Simon had spent the day with Harry, playing games around the house, and generally trying to keep both their thoughts from the distressing conversation they'd had that morning.

"So Harry's at the house now then?" Florence asked curiously, as they turned the corner, a few streets away from Simon's home.

"Yeah, he's been there a few days now. It was really strange actually, Simon drove Harry home, and they basically said they didn't want Harry underfoot because they had guests visiting, so Simon took Harry back home with him, and that was days ago now!" Jack explained. "It's nice having him around though… he's just so… cheerful for the most part, and you find yourself thinking, well if he's here and he's happy with us, then he's not unhappy at home."

"I must say, after all I've heard of him, I'm looking forward to meeting him," Florence admitted when the car turned finally down a small cul-de-sac, and pulled up outside one of the houses at the end of the street. "This is it?"

"This is it," Jack confirmed. "What were you expecting?"

"Something bigger, I must say," she said, smiling.

"Well it's only him who lives here, and he's hardly a millionaire…" Jack said, defending his brother. "Besides, you've not seen the inside yet!"

Florence smiled up at the house. It did seem homely enough, and the front garden was small, but well-kept. "Well, if you and Harry continue to stay here then he's going to need somewhere a lot bigger! Four bedrooms for when I'm visiting, as well."

"Ooh, can you smell that?" Jack said brightly, when they opened the front door.

"Well, you did say that he was cooking dinner for us," Florence pointed out. "I'd be surprised if it didn't smell nice."

"That's very kind of you to say, Florence, dear," Simon called from the kitchen, "and it's fine, just walk into my house."

"I always do!" Jack called.

It took only a moment for Simon to wipe the mess he'd made cooking from his hands, and in a few swift strides, he was in the hall, with his arms around his sister.

"I've missed you, so much," Florence whispered, tightening her arms around her brother's neck. She pulled away, and wiped her eye surreptitiously. "And you must be Harry," she said, taking note of the small boy standing carefully behind Simon, far enough that it was obvious he was trying not to intrude, but not so far that he seemed too shy to speak to.

"It's lovely to meet you, Miss Florence," Harry said quietly, smiling at her faintly.

"And you, though just Florence, or Flo, will be fine," she said, warmly, bending down to shake his hand. "Shall we have something to drink then?" she asked.

"Coffee would be great!" Jack said brightly. "Crack on, Simon!"

"Well, whilst Simon's cooking dinner, and Jack's making some coffee and getting you some juice," Florence said pointedly in her brothers' direction, "why don't you and I get to know one another?" She smiled warmly at Harry again, and took his hand in hers so that he could lead her to the dining room.

"To think of how hard we worked to befriend him, and Florence just waltzes in!" Jack muttered under his breath, flicking the switch on the kettle.

Dinner was an animated, if slightly squashed affair. Though, Simon thought to himself, that description could apply to the whole day so far. They had all chipped in to make dinner, even Harry and Florence, and the small kitchen had been messy and crowded. With the laughter and smiles, Simon found he didn't mind so much. In the end, it had taken a few hours to get everything together, and the dinner smelt and tasted wonderful.

Harry had been hesitant when food filled the table, and almost nervous when Florence filled his plate to the brim with food.

"You don't have to eat it all," Simon had told him. "but if you want more, then eat as much as you want."

"We're going to be eating this for days!" Jack said gleefully, clapping his hands together, and digging into the roast potatoes with relish.

The remaining afternoon and evening was spent lounging around in the living room, everyone having eaten too much. When the clock struck nine, Simon reluctantly got to his feet.

Harry looked to him. "That's our cue to leave, I'm afraid," Simon said, regretfully. "I'll just drop Harry off at home, and I'll be back in a while."

Harry felt something miserable curl in his stomach at the thought of returning to the Dursleys. In all truthfulness, he'd become so accustomed to living here with Mr Glass and Jack, that he'd forgotten it wasn't forever.

Jack swept Harry off his feet and into a bone-breaking hug. "It's been great having you around, kiddo," he told Harry cheerfully. "Come back soon, okay?" He held the boy against his chest and pressed a quick kiss into his hair, without stopping for a moment to think what he was doing. Harry nodded against his chest, and he set him back down.

Florence bent down and wrapped her arms around him. Harry smiled faintly. There was something all together more gentle about Florence than her brothers. Being held by her made him strain to think of some similar feeling long ago that he could never attain. Her long hair tickled his nose, and she smelled like something pretty and flowery. "It was lovely meeting you, Harry."

"It was lovely meeting you, too," he replied shyly. "I hope I see you again, soon."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Simon said, over his shoulder. "She's already laying down her long-term plans to enjoy my charitable nature more thoroughly."

"Well, what do you expect me to do when you never come to visit? I may as well just make my second home here, and live off your kindness," she said brightly, standing up.

"And Dad's money," Jack muttered.

Silence fell over the four of them as they stood in the hallway. Harry had taken hold of Simon's hand, and all of them were dreading his return to the Dursleys.

"I don't want to go back," Harry whispered so quietly, it would have been inaudible if not for the hush that surrounded them. "This has been the best Christmas holiday I've ever had. I don't… I wish I could stay here forever."

Florence bit her lip, and Jack looked like he was being pulled apart from the inside.

"Oh, Harry," Simon said, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms as tightly around the boy as he dared. "We wish you could stay forever, too."

Florence realised then what the young boy meant to her older brother, when the younger was wrapped in Simon's arms, and clung on as if his life depended upon it. It was clear then that Simon would be willing to do nearly anything to help Harry.

After a long moment, Simon pulled away from Harry, though their hands remained joined. "Come on, Harry, let's get you home."

The ride home was a quiet one for Simon and Harry. The latter was caught up in thoughts of what the Dursleys were going to be like when he returned. Would they be in high spirits after a lovely Christmas without him? Or would they be in a bad mood because he'd returned? He hoped that they'd just ignore him, and let him curl up in his cupboard with the book Mr Glass had given him for Christmas, and let him be.

Meanwhile, Simon was wrapped in thoughts of Harry's quiet confession in the hallway, that he wished he never had to leave. He wished the boy never had to leave either, and he was desperately trying to think of a way to make Harry his.

When the car finally pulled up outside number four, both Harry and Simon sighed inwardly.

"I-I meant what I said earlier," Harry said quietly. "I wish I never had to leave you. This Christmas… it's been the best one I've ever had, and I've never felt before like I was part of a family."

He reached across to Simon, and wrapped his arms around him. Simon thought back, and could think of few times that Harry had initiated any contact between them. He was certainly growing in confidence, and he felt warmed inside by it.

"You feel very much a part of my family," Simon replied, running his fingers soothingly through Harry's hair. "I hope someday you will be part of it permanently."

He felt, rather than saw, Harry smile against his chest. "It sounds stupid," the child began again, nervously, "but I never really understood what I was missing when the other kids at school talked about their mums and dads, but… I wish you were my father."

Something in Simon felt like it broke at that moment, and his chest felt constrained by more than Harry's warm arms. "Oh, Harry, I wish more than anything that I was your father."

He didn't realise until he said it just how true it was.

He pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead, just over his scar. Harry took it as his cue to leave.

"Good bye, Mr Glass." And then he was gone, the car door closed quietly behind him, and a small figure ran up the garden path, as if afraid it would never get to the house if he didn't run from the car.

The door opened, and Harry was bathed in light. There was just enough time for Simon to see the small hand wave at him, before it was nearly caught in the door that Petunia slammed shut. Then he was alone again.


	15. On Top

Chapter Fifteen

The next few days were more subdued in Simon's house than they had been on New Year's Day. Without Harry, Jack lost some of his exuberance, and Simon felt almost lost.

"He said he wished I was his father," Simon blurted out into the silent room.

Florence looked up in interest from the book she was reading. It was a cold, miserable day, and the three of them had spent most of their day curled up in the house doing relatively little. Simon was writing his teaching plans for the next term, and Florence had chosen a book from his collection. Jack had been sent out a few minutes ago to retrieve fish and chips for them from the chippy up the road.

"When?"

"The other day, when I drove him home. In the car, before he went, he said he'd never felt as much a part of a family as over Christmas, and that he wished I was his father," Simon explained.

"And what did you say to him?" Florence asked, hoping he'd not said something stupid.

Simon sighed, and set his work down on the coffee table. "I told him that I wished I was his father, too."

She raised an eyebrow. "And did you mean it?"

"I… well as soon as I said it, I realised that I did," he sighed. "I wish he were mine, Flo. He should have been mine with Caroline. She would have known what to do about all this. She would have saved him by now, instead of letting him live in misery in that… that _house_."

Florence sighed then. "If Caroline were still with us, then you probably wouldn't have been a teacher now, and you wouldn't have been here to save Harry, and perhaps someone else would have done it. But as it is, she's not here to guide you. She was a lovely woman, and her death was so unfair, but all you can do is think what kind of thing she would have done to save him.

"She wasn't superhuman though, Si. She was one of the most charming people I ever had the pleasure to meet, but she couldn't do everything. She was no better than you, and would have been no better equipped to deal with this situation than yourself. All she would have wanted was for you to be happy."

Simon got to his feet and began pacing, his fingers squeezing each other, as he wrung his hands. The topic of his departed fiancé was still a hard one for him, and it was one he hadn't spoken of since her death two years ago. Eventually, he turned back to his sister, an agonised expression on his face.

"What if I don't know how to be happy without her?"

Florence got to her feet, and took her brother's hands in her own. "I don't think I've seen you so happy, or so alive since then, with the exception being New Year's Day. Having Harry here, with the rest of us, made you happy, and alive again. I know it's hard, and I know you don't realise it, but you are getting there. You will live without her, even if you don't want to."

He sighed and squeezed her hands.

* * *

"So, how about it?" Jack asked Harry brightly.

Harry shrugged slightly, hurting his already injured shoulder a little more. "I don't want to cause any trouble for you."

"Hey kiddo, it's no trouble for me whatsoever, I was thinking of opening a karate club around here anyway, since there isn't one, and I was hoping to test my teaching skills on you first," Jack said, running a hand fondly through Harry's hair.

"Do you know how to teach people?" Harry asked curiously. "Just that Mr Glass said that he had to go to university to learn."

Jack smiled. "This isn't the same. I'm just teaching you to defend yourself because you want to learn, whereas Simon's being paid to teach youngsters like yourself maths and the kinds of things you're going to need to know for the rest of your life."

"I see," Harry said quietly, mulling the idea over in his mind.

They were sitting in the park together, Harry still sniffling slightly. He'd been walking down into town to say 'hello' to Mrs Stone and Mr Bones, and to meander along to the library on the way back, when he'd been accosted by Dudley's gang. It was a miserable afternoon, and there hadn't been many people around. It was purely good fortune that had Jack jogging through the town at that moment to grab some food for lunch, since he'd already eaten Simon out of house and home.

"It'll be good for you," Jack promised. "We'll give it a few tries, yeah? And if you don't feel more confident, or fitter, or better able to defend yourself from those cowardly bullies, then we'll give it up as a bad job and forget all about it. How does that sound?"

"All right, when do we begin?" Harry asked. He admitted to himself that he was a little apprehensive about this karate thing, whatever it was. Jack had explained, but he wasn't quite sure how they'd go about defending themselves. Still, it was something he'd never tried before, and if Jack thought it would be good for him, then he'd give it a go.

"Just as soon as your injuries clear up," Jack promised. "In fact… I was thinking perhaps we could get you after school to do it."

He paused thoughtfully and stared off into the distance.

"I am absolutely not going to do this for you," Simon said flatly. Two hours later, Jack had walked Harry home to the Dursleys and had returned to Simon's to pitch his idea.

"Oh come on! You use your fancy school stationary to write to the Dursleys and tell them that Harry's being dreadful in school and is now going to have to stay in detention every day until he catches up, and then I can teach him karate, and we're keeping him away from those monsters at the same time," Jack appealed, "Two birds, one stone! Genius!"

"I refuse to tell them that Harry's an idiot, when I'm quite certain he's not!" Simon turned away towards his laptop and the lesson plans he had therein, hoping for an end to the discussion.

"You said yourself that he wasn't particularly clever or stupid, so why does it matter if they think he's the lowest in the class? Flattering them that their own son is a genius and their crappy nephew's an idiot is only going to make them more likely to agree. They _want_ him to be unhappy, so you may as well say it's detention. If you say he's doing things he may enjoy after school, they'll stop him! You know they will!"

Unfortunately, Simon had to admit that Jack was, for once, making a surprising amount of sense. There was something in him that squirmed at the idea of giving the Dursleys ammunition against Harry. What if they decided to hurt him for doing so badly? But as Jack said, they clearly expected him to…

"Fine, but if we're giving him these 'detentions', then I want to spend some time with him, too. I'm not having you monopolising his time with karate," Simon said firmly.

Jack whooped and leapt into the air triumphantly. "I wasn't going to," he said, after a moment, "I was thinking of teaching him a little fencing as well, if he enjoys it."

Simon arched an eyebrow. "Are you trying to teach him everything you know? What after the fencing? Croquet? Polo?"

Jack, choosing completely to miss his brother's sarcasm, replied gaily, "What an excellent idea! There's no reason he shouldn't learn all we did as children! What about the violin? The piano? A bit of French maybe…"

"Jack, just… just shut up."

"I bet Harry'd be great at the violin!" Jack continued to enthuse, his boredom driving him to irritate his brother as much as humanly possible.

"If I recall correctly, it was exactly this regiment of being constantly bettered that ruined our childhoods," Simon said, his eyes on his planning.

Jack snorted and sat back down. "Yeah, I know. I was just trying to irritate you. Seriously though, he might enjoy something musical."

Simon sighed. "Perhaps, when he's older, and has presence of mind enough to choose for himself, instead of having you choosing activities for him. Perhaps then, I might teach him a little music. Now, go put the kettle on. My tea's gone cold, listening to you wittering on."

"You'll draft a letter then?"

"Yes, if you shut up, I'll do it tonight. God forbid you should do it yourself," he muttered, holding out his mug.

And so it was that the very next day, Mrs Dursley exclaimed at the breakfast table over the mail. There were two letters to her, which appeared to be hand delivered. It had Dudley's primary school logo at the top of each one, and she peered into them uncertainly.

"What is it, flower?" Vernon asked, peering over.

"Letters from the school," she replied, distractedly. Her eyes skimming over the print. "Says here that the boy's not doing so well. They want to give him detentions until he manages to catch up to the other students. Lacks concentration and 'a will to learn' it says."

Vernon snorted into his tea. "Well, that's hardly a surprise is it? Considering who his parents were. All idiots. Didn't get a proper education after the age of eleven, what's to be surprised at?"

"Shall I let them keep him in detention then?" she asked.

"May as well. Keep him from under our feet a bit more, and instil a bit more discipline into his thick head, I think," he said gruffly, picking his newspaper back up.

Petunia nodded. In a neat script, she gave her permission at the bottom of the letter for Harry to stay back at the school for at least an hour a day, and assured them that he wouldn't need help getting home afterwards.

She moved onto the next letter, frowning down at it. It wasn't possible that Dudley also was doing badly, and required detention. Surely, if so, it was because of that little freak distracting him in classes.

No, this letter was quite the opposite.

"You know, I had a poor opinion of that Mr Glass," she said primly. Vernon looked up at her to signal for her to continue. "I thought that he was just going to favour the boy, and ignore our Dudders, but this letter… it says what a wonderful boy he is, so kind and sweet, and always trying to help others. So clever, too! Well, he can't be too poor a teacher, if he can see all that in Dudley," she finished, proudly.

"I never doubted how clever he'd be!" Vernon said brightly, his moustache quivering with delight. "He obviously doesn't need attention from the teachers like the freak does. Just gets on with it himself, does our son."

In his cupboard, Harry curled up on himself, finally pulling away from the door. Had Mr Glass said that about him? That he wasn't very clever, and needed keeping in detention until he was as good as the other children?

It wasn't fair! He thought to himself, wrapping the blanket more tightly against his thin clothes. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't do the questions as well as the others. Well, he supposed, it wasn't that he _couldn't_, but that he wasn't allowed to. He remembered bitterly the last time he'd come home with a glowing report card. It was the first year at the school, and he remembered Ms Hutchinson happily giving him his card to take home. He'd shown it proudly to his aunt… and then, it hadn't gone so well.

Uncle Vernon had been angry. Really angry. How dare he sabotage Dudley and make himself look good? There was obviously a mistake with the cards. The Freak would never do so well at normal school… It had gone on. They had phoned the school in the end. After that, both his aunt and uncle had gone to the school in person. Harry wasn't sure, but he didn't remember his teacher being so nervous before that day.

It had been an unpleasant experience, one that he was sure he never wanted to repeat. He was careful, after that, to make sure that all work he handed in was substandard. There were deliberate mistakes on everything, as much as everyone else made, anyway. And if a piece of work appeared particularly important, he was sure to appear nervous, and botch more answers than usual. He'd never received a good report card since, and the Dursleys were satisfied that the first mistake had been rectified.

The cupboard opened suddenly, and Uncle Vernon had grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt.

"The school says you're not doing too well, boy, so from now on, you'll be staying late in detention until they've got some knowledge into that thick head of yours," he said gruffly. "Don't expect picking up afterwards."

He gestured towards the front door, and Harry hurriedly grabbed his bag from inside the cupboard. He didn't dare ask if he was allowed breakfast. It was clear that he was not.

He meandered along the streets towards school sadly. He couldn't bear the thought that Mr Glass had written those things about him. It wasn't his fault he wasn't allowed to succeed in school! He had a sudden urge to tell him everything. How he had to do poorly so that Dudley looked good. To Harry, the idea of someone he looked up to so much thinking him an idiot was almost physically painful.

As he got to the school gates, his resolve failed. He remembered the feeling of Vernon's hand gripping his neck when he'd been thrown against the wall. The fury in his face when he'd done so well… No, there was no need to tell anyone anything. It was a shame that he was going to have to be secretly clever, and good at school, but it was the price he would have to pay to have a quiet life.

He'd tell Mr Glass one day, Harry thought, as he stepped into the classroom. His teacher smiled at him, but he only ducked his head and avoided his gaze. Harry wasn't sure he could look at him so early on, not when the words of his letter that Aunt Petunia read out still echoed in his head.

At the end of the day, Harry packed his things away slowly, and carefully. He walked to the front of the classroom and stood silently in front of Mr Glass's desk.

Simon watched Harry cautiously. The child had been quiet and subdued all day, and he wasn't quite sure why. Whenever he tried to meet his eyes, and enquire what was wrong, Harry would look away, and fix his eyes firmly on his work.

"I'm here for my detention, sir," Harry said, quietly.

It was if a light was flicked on in his mind, Simon noted idly. That was it. That was why he had been so distressed all day. God only knew what the Dursleys had said to him.

"It's not going to be a detention as such, Harry," Simon said, his eyes never leaving the face of his charge. "Jack and I thought it might be a good time for you to learn some karate and maybe just spend some time with us. How does that sound?"

Harry glanced up at him through his long fringe. He swallowed. "Then why did you send that letter to my aunt?"

Simon sighed. "I had to. What do you think would have happened if I'd sent her a letter saying that I thought you might enjoy learning karate and staying late at the school?"

Harry scoffed. "She wouldn't let me."

"Exactly," Simon said softly. "I had to make her think you'd be unhappy here so that you could stay. You can go home though, if you'd prefer?"

"No!" Harry said sharply, looking up at him for the first time all day.

"Then let's go find Jack, shall we?" Simon said, rising to his feet. He didn't need to turn around to see that Harry was following him, and after a moment, he felt a small hand reach up and take hold of his own.

* * *

The karate lessons went as well as any of them could have hoped. Within a few weeks, Harry's confidence had taken a noticeable turn upwards, and this seemed to affect him in all areas of his life. Jack, too, seemed more cheerful for spending time with Harry and having some purpose to his life, aside from his studies – though Simon rarely saw him working on those.

One month after Harry had been learning the basics of karate from Jack, he experienced his first opportunity of putting his knowledge into practice. He had been walking home, alone, from school one evening after his detention. The weather was getting a little warmer, and Dudley had taken to playing outside again with his gang. Harry always went out of his way to avoid the bullies, but sometimes, fate was not so kind to him as it might have been.

"Oi, Freak, where do you think you're going?" The voice called out after him, but Harry kept his head down and hurried along, hoping against hope that he'd be left alone to go his own way.

Suddenly, they were in front of him. "Don't you dare ignore me, you filthy freak."

Harry looked up to see Dudley standing in front of him, a heavy scowl on his face. Behind him stood Piers and Gordon. He was definitely not getting out of this in one piece.

Words from that day drifted back to him. _If you're ever faced with more than one person at once, go for the ringleader. If you can scare him off, you can scare the rest off, too._

Dudley swung his arm around, aiming his fist at Harry's head. The smaller boy ducked quickly, and slipped around to the side of him. In one swift movement, he pushed sharply at Dudley's punching arm, and quickly pulled Dudley's leg from under him with his own. Dudley twisted strangely in the air, and flailed wildly when he fell towards the floor.

He slammed into the ground with a heavy 'oof', and he heard a gasp of surprise from Piers and Gordon. Not to be deterred, Gordon started towards him, but a similar manoeuvre left Gordon falling sideways, where he promptly fell over Dudley as he tried to climb back to his feet.

Harry was left breathing heavily, and staring down at the two boys in a tangle at his feet. Never before had he come out on top. In a moment, he remembered Piers, but when he turned around, he saw the boy fleeing up the street.

It was with a flutter of triumph mingled with anticipation of trouble that he ran home to the house, hoping that Dudley wouldn't be able to get back to his feet any time soon to chase him.

In the end, the price he paid for his victory was not one he would have chosen. A bump to the head, and a bruised arm from where he'd been grabbed by Vernon and pushed roughly into the wall had been his reward. When Jack asked him of the cause of his injuries the next day, Harry didn't regret what he'd done, and told him everything.

"Ha! That's fantastic, Harry! You sure showed them," Jack exclaimed. Though personally, Jack wasn't sure it was worth the price of being injured by his uncle, Harry assured him it was much less than he'd have received had Dudley and his gang had their way. This did little to assuage his fears for Harry, but Jack could only shrug; Harry seemed happy with this new development, and as long as he was happy, he would continue to teach him and do everything he could.

"Ah… this is going to sound a bit strange, Harry," Jack said hesitantly, "but before you go, do you mind if I take pictures of the bump on your head and the bruises on your arm please?"

Harry nodded, appearing confused, but willing to help out as best he could. He didn't question any more when Mr Glass or Jack asked him to speak more slowly as they wrote down what had happened to him at home, and he merely agreed to let them photograph the injuries he sustained at school and at home. He never asked why they were doing it.

* * *

A/N: Why the updates so soon in succession from an author so usually slow, I hear you ask! I've unexpectedly got five days a week at home with nothing to do, so I thought I may as well push on with the story whilst I've the time. A testament to my amazing amount of time - I've also got the majority of the next chapter written, and the last three chapters finished, too! I need a job...


	16. What A Surprise

Chapter Sixteen

Simon paced the room idly, glancing down at the rows of children before him, and trying hard not to focus his attention too much upon Harry. The room was silent for once, and his perpetual headache thanked them for the quiet.

Already, it was May. The months had flown by, and since Jack had started teaching Harry karate, he appeared to have a little more confidence in himself, and a little less fear for the bullies that seemed to plague him. Jack had become quite confident in his own teaching skills, and had put forward a letter to the Ruth for a request to run an after school karate club. Since she had no reason to refuse, Simon strongly suspected she would approve it, but not knowing was keeping his brother more nervous than Simon would have suspected.

In front of him, Harry frowned faintly at his paper, and reached out for the rubber on his desk.

It would be parents' evening in a couple of weeks' time, and Simon had decided that the best way to discover where their talents lay was to set a minor test or two. He had convinced the children that it was exceedingly important for them to try their hardest in this test, and that the results would never go further than himself. At least, this way, he would know which children weren't living up to their potential.

After a few more laps of the classroom, he settled down behind his desk, and surreptitiously pulled out a novel to occupy the time. Underneath it, a picture from Harry smiled up at him.

He had to admit, that he was pleased with the way the year was shaping out. Harry was happier, Jack was cheerfully engaged with his own life, he had a meeting with social worker Claire in a few weeks' time to hopefully plot a little further on the Harry situation, Florence had situated herself in a house a few minutes walk away from his, and their mother was coming out for a visit at the weekend.

It seemed strange to him that their mother was visiting; like Florence, she was never one to stray far from home, or at least not on her own. The fact that their father wasn't going to be gracing them with his presence said more loudly than anything that he still held no approval for him. Nevertheless, they were curious as to Florence's living arrangements, and how she was coping so far from home.

Somewhere within the school, a bell rung out. Simon looked up from his book, startled. Staring back at him were twenty-five uncertain faces, their work either in varying states of completeness in front of them.

"Go on then, get yourselves home," Simon said to them, smiling, "and I'll see you all on Monday."

He wandered around the room, collecting up the papers, and he suppressed a smile when he turned back to his desk and saw Harry sitting in his chair.

"Hey there, Harry!" Jack said cheerfully, barging into the classroom as if it were his own to command. "Are you ready?"

Harry nodded, smiling.

"It'll be our last ever solo lesson today, kiddo," Jack told him proudly, and held out a letter for Simon to examine. "Ruth gave me the okay to start a club whenever I wanted. I was hoping you'd help me make some posters?"

Simon frowned. He certainly had enough work to be getting on with over the weekend, without adding Jack's voluntary workload to it. "Perhaps Harry might enjoy helping you design one?"

"What a great idea!" Jack proclaimed. "So when we've finished training, you'll have to show me where the computers are, yeah?"

Harry nodded, and the three of them left their classroom for the main assembly hall. Jack had already set up a few mats for them to work on, and when they entered, Harry and Jack took off their shoes to practice.

Simon took his customary seat in the corner of the hall. Close to Jack and Harry, he could take a break and watch his brother impart wisdom, but also, his position was close to the staffroom if coffee became necessary.

Slowly but surely, his red pen began to skim over the answers of the students, and he recorded their marks in a column next to the register.

"Dudley Dursley," he murmured under his breath, "thirty percent, what a surprise…" He shook his head faintly, wondering at how he'd ever brought himself to write such a glowing report for a foolish, bullying child like that.

He opened the next paper in his lap. Harry Potter. He sighed faintly, determining that after this one, he'd leave the rest for Sunday evening.

The paper became progressively harder as the students worked their way through them. After realising that Harry had got the first couple of pages entirely correct, he smiled to himself and moved on.

Once he reached the end, he went back through it to count the marks. And froze. "Full marks?" he muttered. "No way."

He went back over the paper again. He hadn't miscounted. Harry had somehow got full marks on a test, beating even the brightest students in the class.

"That's great. So all you need to do now is hook your ankle behind mine—" Jack said, "Yeah, like that, and twist your torso, and I'll fall down."

There was a heavy thud, followed by laughter.

"That's exactly right, Har!" Jack jumped back to his feet to have another go. "Now again, but don't stop. Just one fluid movement, yeah?"

Another thud.

Simon found himself smiling across at them.

Of course, he thought to himself, the evidence had always been there. Harry read more than any child he could think of, and sometimes, the way he spoke was certainly beyond his years… He frowned. But why then, had he never seen this intelligence before? And what had made it emerge now?

"Urgh…" Jack moaned from the floor sometime later. "Let's call it a day, shall we?"

"A good idea, I think," Simon said, smiling up at them, and putting the test papers away in his briefcase. He paused and then added, "Why don't you go get the computer turned on in the library and Harry and I will tidy the mats away in here?"

Jack nodded, and ambled off towards the library.

Simon made short work of the mats, putting them away quickly and efficiently without Harry's help, so that he might have more time alone to speak with the child.

"I've marked your paper from earlier," Simon said warily, once the two of them were seated on a bench at the back of the hall.

"Oh…?" Harry responded, his eyes finding a familiar pattern on the floor.

"You did very well indeed," Simon told him. "Better than everyone else, in fact."

Harry blushed faintly, but otherwise made no response.

"Why don't you always try so hard? Why have you been keeping your abilities secret?" Simon asked, trying to catch Harry's gaze.

Harry only stared more determinedly at the floor, but just as he appeared on the brink of replying, Jack burst back in through a side door. "Right, we're all started up now!"

Simon gave him a withering look, and Harry leapt off his seat, and ran over to him. "I'll catch up with both of you in a minute, I'm just going to get some more coffee," Simon told them, and disappeared into the staffroom.

"I've just put the kettle on," Margaret told him, without looking up from the lesson plans that she'd sprawled across the small table in front of her.

Around the room, a few other teachers were still slogging through lesson plans and marking, and a few were occupied with making displays for the walls in their classrooms.

"Hey, Dennis," Simon started hesitantly, sitting down next to the deputy.

Something about the tone of his voice must have tipped him off to a more serious than usual conversation, because he sat up a little straighter, and put his work to one side.

"What's going on?" Dennis asked, without preamble.

He sighed. "It's Harry."

From across the room, Margaret snorted. "What a surprise."

"You taught him last year. How clever would you say he is?" he asked, cutting her off from further comment.

Dennis frowned then, and looked a little puzzled. "No more than average, I'd say. In fact, I think I'd go as far as to say distinctly average. Why do you ask?"

Simon ran a hand through his hair. "I've just given the kids a test, to see how they're doing before parents' evening, and he got full marks." His bemusement showed in his voice.

"And did all the children get full marks then?"

"No, that's just it," Simon objected. "No one else did. I mean, a couple came close, but Harry got top marks, and he's never really shown any signs of intelligence like that before."

A few seats down, he caught sight of Jackie smiling slightly into her cup of tea. She seemed almost proud, he reflected.

Dennis frowned. "No, he's never seemed particularly bright to me before. As I said, distinctly ordinary, really."

Simon sighed then, and made himself a cup of coffee. "Oh well, thanks. I'd better get back, and see if he and Jack have destroyed the computer yet."

He nodded to the room in general and slipped back out into the main hall. He hadn't gone a few steps before he felt a hand on his arm.

"He is clever," Margaret said as suddenly as she'd come up on him. His puzzlement must have shown on his face because she continued, "Harry, he's very smart. In his first year at the school, I gave him a glowing report card, the best I think I've ever given…"

A sinking feeling was already making its way into his stomach. "And what happened?"

Her smile twisted into something bitter and angry. "That _family_ of his called him a liar and a cheat. They said he was an idiot, and must have cheated to make their precious Dudley look poor," she told him, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "They came marching up to the school in the end. Said they wanted me fired for incompetence, can you believe? They left after that, and Harry wasn't at school for a few days…"

"And then?" Simon prompted when she fell quiet again.

"He was never the same after that," she said regretfully. "His whole enthusiasm for school had just gone out, and his work's never been as good since."

"What do you think's happened?" Simon asked her, urgently. Behind him, he could hear laughter coming from the direction of the library.

"Self-preservation, I imagine," Margaret said, gloomily. "His family are displeased when he succeeds, so he stops himself succeeding. Whatever went on with that test today, he must have thought it wouldn't get back to them that he'd done so very well… He'd never have dared otherwise."

He ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to tug at it in frustration. "What the hell am I going to do about this?"

"Do?" She laughed faintly. "Do nothing. Don't mention it to Harry, and for the love of God, don't mention it to his family."

He looked away from her then, his face twisting slightly. "You've already mentioned it to him," she said flatly. "You're an idiot, Glass. That boy trusts you, don't go messing that up."

And then she'd gone, the staffroom door swinging shut behind her. Simon was left standing alone in the assembly hall, with no more idea of what to do for Harry than he had a minute ago.

It took a little longer than Simon would have liked, but eventually Harry came to relax near him again that day, when it became clear that he wasn't going to broach the topic of his test results again. He and Jack were already well into the design of the poster when he arrived at the library, and he could still hear the laughter down the corridors as he made his way there.

"It's a wonderful poster," Simon said, glancing up at it when they were nearly ready to go, "but it's missing some rather crucial information…"

"Like what?" Jack demanded defensively.

Simon smirked. "Like a day, and a time and a location of the club?"

Harry's face fell slightly, and Jack sighed, and pulled up a new text box.

"Though it's a lovely poster other than that," he added, trying to cheer Harry up, and hoping to rile Jack up a little further.

"Hey, how's Mum getting here tomorrow?" Jack asked, once he'd finished typing all the necessary information into the poster. "I'm not supposed to be picking her up, am I?"

It was clear the memory of his leaving Florence alone in Oxford until nearly lunch time had stayed with him since the new year.

Simon repressed a smile. "No, she's getting the train down, and I'm going to pick her up from the station, since you're clearly not to be trusted."

"Your Mum's coming to visit you?" Harry asked, tearing his eyes away from their poster design.

Simon nodded. "Tomorrow, and she's staying until Tuesday. I've told her lots about you, and she really wants to meet you."

Harry frowned and bit his lip. "Why?"

Jack looked surprised. "Who wouldn't want to meet you?"

Harry opened his mouth to say something, a wry expression on his face that seemed older than his years, but he closed it again with a snap. Simon would wonder for a while what it was that he never said, though he was sure it was something sarcastic.

He smiled inwardly, wondering how he'd missed Harry's obvious intelligence until now. "So if you get chance to come over during the weekend, you'll be very welcome," Simon said, finishing their conversation. At the same time, he pressed the print button on the computer, and finished their work, too.

"Hey, that looks great!" Jack exclaimed, once the first of their posters had printed out. "So we can stick one in here, and one in the foyer, and one in each classroom, and one in the local church and…"

Simon rolled his eyes, and even Harry dared to look amused.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when the door bell rang at Florence's house.

"I'll get it," Florence said, stepping easily over Jack's legs that were propped against the coffee table.

She was pleased to see the smiling child on the other side of the door. Since she'd bought her house a little way down the street, Florence had seen almost as much of Harry as Simon and Jack did. Often, on his way home, he'd call in to see her, or sometimes she'd come home to find a little picture posted through her letter box with "Love Harry" written on the back in childish script. She kept all of them, and stuck them on the fridge.

It was clear that Harry enjoyed her company during the visits he paid her, and she wondered if there was something about her being a female influence in his life that drew him to her. Her relation to Simon and Jack, and her easy disposition meant that Harry was as likely to confess the details of his life at home to her and he was to them these days. She'd only had her new home a few days when Jack came around, and left a dictaphone on her worktop in the kitchen, with a note suggesting she use it when Harry was around.

"And you must be Harry," Hillary said, when Harry walked into the room, holding onto Florence's hand. "I've heard lots about you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Glass," Harry told her earnestly, managing to hold eye-contact for the duration of his speech, before dropping them back to the ground.

Hillary was not what would usually be considered a clever woman. She had no formal schooling after the age of sixteen, and she'd married for money as much as love shortly before her twentieth birthday. Her husband had always been a little overbearing, and her opinions fell away beneath his own. Nevertheless, she was observant and perceptive.

It was this sharp perception that allowed her to watch the interplay between all her children, and the strange new edition to the family. For she was certain that that was what Harry was; it was as clear as day to her now.

For the most part, she saw Harry as a quiet, but sweet child, and later in the day, she found that his quietness was due mostly to the novelty of her own presence in the house. As he relaxed, so did his tongue, and he easily engaged in the banter and laughter between the three older siblings. She could see his sharp intelligence, and his trusting nature, but as well as this, there was a darker undercurrent to him. Something to do with the abusive treatment he periodically received lent him a dependence upon Simon that she wasn't sure the others could see, and a fierce determination to prove himself, and defend those he cared for.

The latter quality surfaced at intervals, usually when Jack took his mockery of his elder brother a little too far; Harry would step in and defend him, and his warmth towards Jack would fade a little for some time.

Hillary had never considered that by raising her children in an isolated manor, she would be stifling them, only protecting them. But seeing them here, in the world they had fashioned for themselves opened her eyes a little. Florence had never been so at ease, she was sure of that, and though the home she had made for herself lacked a little in the amenities they were used to at home, it was more than adequate for a young woman starting out in life on her own.

It was Simon she was most interested in. She had not seen her son for a long time, longer than she cared to admit to herself, yet he had welcomed her into his own home earlier that day, and treated her with the ease he always had. Since the death of his fiancé some years ago, he had hidden himself away from the rest of the family, choosing to study alone, and become a teacher without external assistance. Though at the time, his coping mechanisms had alarmed her, now it seemed he had recovered enough to be concerned more for the welfare of others than himself. She was pleased to see him so healed.

Harry even looked a little like Simon, she realised, when she watched them sitting and talking together. They could easily be family, and it hurt her a little knowing that they could not be.

When she left late that evening, despite Florence's pleas for her to stay another day, it was with a lighter heart and quieter mind than when she had arrived. She could return to her home knowing that all her children were happy and cared for by the others. That Jack was moving beyond his apathy in life and Florence was finally learning to stand alone.

"You must come to visit us in the summer," she had said to Simon before her departure, "both of you, if your plans come together."

She had taken a turn around the local park with her eldest, and he had told her his plans for Harry. His hopes to free him from his home, and to take him in himself, if he was able. It warmed her to know that the love she had given her son throughout his life had manifested itself in such a way towards others.

He had hesitated in making his reply. "If I can free him as I hope, then it will be with great happiness that we shall visit you in Oxford," he promised.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, as she had done when he was a child. "I'm very proud of you." And then she was gone, her taxi to the train station speeding her down the street and out of sight.


	17. A Wonderful Day

Chapter Seventeen

"Goodbye, Mr Thomas, Mrs Thomas," Simon said, trying hard to hide the weariness from his voice, when he stood to take the hands of the parents before him. Parents' evening was the worst night of the year. Twenty-five sets of parents all seated opposite throughout the evening, all wanting to know how well their child was succeeding, and how wonderful they were. When he could honestly tell a parent or two how extraordinary a child was, it was truly a pleasure for him. Unfortunately, it was rare that he was able to do so.

And in one particular case, he was going to be lying entirely.

He had promised himself that, though he would have to tell the Dursleys how lovely Dudley was, he would also tell them that Harry was the same, and compliment them on their raising of both boys. He was aware that in the past, Harry had suffered for succeeding, but he could not bring himself to tell them that he was an idiot, especially now that he knew it was far from the truth.

The alternative had been to tell them that both boys were idiots, again, half the truth. However, he was sure that Harry would take the blame for bringing Dudley down to his supposed level of intelligence. No, that would not do.

They were his last appointment of the evening, he was relieved to note, and at twenty-five past eight, Petunia and Vernon Dursley walked confidently into the assembly hall. They spotted him immediately, and walked over to his table, seating themselves without bothering with an introduction.

"Well Mr and Mrs Dursley, I must say that both your boys have made a remarkable improvement this term," Simon dared to say, watching them both for any explosion for mentioning the invisible member of their household.

When no such explosion occurred, he continued.

"Harry especially has really lived up to his potential, outstripping many of the other students in the class," he said, and this time, Petunia's expression darkened, and Vernon looked ready to leave. "I'm sure this is because of the positive influence Dudley is having upon him," he lied quickly, watching them deflate quickly.

"Dudley succeeds especially in English and art," he went on. Not totally a lie. Dudley was able to read and write, and hold a paintbrush…

The rest of the evening continued in this vein, a fine balancing act between praising Harry whenever he felt able, and then having to try to find a way to attribute Harry's wonderful personality and skills in academia to their own son. Telling them that Dudley was an able student, and then trying to think of examples to back up his supposed genius.

He didn't think he'd done too badly – at the end of their brief encounter, neither of them looked particularly furious with him, or with Harry, but at the same time, they didn't look very pleased with the information they'd received about Dudley either. Had the meeting gone especially well, Simon had been hoping to raise the issue of Dudley's consistent bullying of members of his class with them, but with their dispositions as they were, he couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

He knew that it was something vital that must be said to them at some point, but he was hoping to leave it unaddressed for just a little longer. He would protect the members of his classroom as best he could for a short while longer, until he had achieved what he wished to with regard to Harry. There was no point in telling them that their son was a bullying coward at this point in time. It would only put their nephew in danger.

"Goodbye, Mr Glass. Thank you for your time." Petunia's voice was cold and clipped, and he could hear in it an undercurrent of distress. Whether it was that her nephew was succeeding when they had both expected him to fail, he could not quite tell.

And then they were gone, and he finally felt as if he could breathe again. A mug of coffee was pressed into his hand, and he thanked Stephen gratefully. It had certainly been the most stressful evening he'd experienced in a while.

In their car, moving further and further away from the school, Petunia Dursley agreed with his assessment of the stress involved with the meeting. She had feared intensely that her son would have been adversely affected by the freak, putting his application to Smeltings in a few years time in jeopardy.

Instead of this, she had been told that the freak was being positively influenced by her son. This was certainly a surprise, and it wasn't one she entirely believed.

"I think he's lying about the boy," Vernon said abruptly. "There's no way that he's improved, he's an idiot. Anyone can see that."

He swung the car around the corner near their home.

Petunia thought carefully. "I'm not sure he's lying," she suggested, "perhaps just mislead by the boy. You know what a liar and a cheat he can be. Perhaps he's cheating from Dudley and Glass doesn't see it. After all, he was right about Dudley having such an aptitude for English."

Vernon's moustache twitched proudly. "A modern day Shakespeare, our boy."

So, it was with their minds made up that they returned to their home. Mrs Figg had both boys with her next door, and she brought them around as soon as their car pulled up outside the house.

"How have they been, Arabella?" Petunia asked. "Not caused any trouble, I hope?"

She glared at Harry as she said this, and Arabella was quick to jump to the rescue. "Absolutely fine. They've just been watching TV for the most part. No trouble at all, I assure you."

Petunia gave her a look that suggested she didn't quite believe her, but didn't say anything in return but for, "Well, thank you again. It was so kind of you to take them both together."

They had only just stepped back into the house when Dudley turned on them. "So, how did he say I'd done?"

Petunia's face split into a warm smile. "Oh Dudders, he said you were wonderful, and creative, and ever so clever!"

Dudley smirked. "See, I told you I was doing well, didn't I?"

Petunia wrapped her arms around her small son. "Let's go have some ice cream to celebrate."

Mother and son disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a slightly quaking Harry in the company of his uncle.

"That teacher had a lot to say for you, boy," Vernon said gruffly. "Said you'd improved, and were doing well."

The warmth Harry felt growing inside him at this statement was snuffed out suddenly, when his uncle added, "Well, we don't believe it for a second. We know what kind of freak you are, boy, and we're not going to stand for you cheating from our Dudley any longer, do you hear me?"

Harry swallowed suddenly, and stepped backwards, away from his uncle.

"Did I give you permission to leave?" he barked at the small child. "Does your disrespect for this family know no bounds? First, we take you in despite the freak you are, and put a roof over your head and feed you what we can. Then you repay us with misleading your teachers and lying, and cheating from our son!"

By the end of this speech, his face was as red as Harry had ever seen it, and his hands were clenched into shaking fists. Suddenly, he was very scared.

It had been a long while now since Uncle Vernon had been like this.

From nowhere, a fist struck at his face, and Harry staggered and fell to the ground, a low moan escaping his throat, against his will.

"You make any noise, boy, and I'll make sure you regret it."

After that, Harry wasn't entirely sure what happened. He awoke in his cupboard in darkness, and the only thing he could feel was the determined throbbing of his left arm. He stifled a sob against his blanket, and curled further in on himself, trying to move as little as possible. Everywhere ached.

The kitchen door banged opened then, and two sets of feet strode into the hallway.

"Well, what are we going to do?" he heard his Aunt Petunia ask quietly.

A loud sigh. "I don't know, but I think… I think the boy might need to go to the hospital."

'The hospital?' Harry thought to himself. 'Why would I need to go there? Sure, my arm hurts but… it's hurt before.'

"What did you _do_?" Aunt Petunia hissed, and Harry recoiled from the door.

"I just hit him, to show him we weren't going to put up with his behaviour, and he fell… and broke his arm."

"You broke his arm?" Petunia nearly screeched. "What the hell is the school going to think?"

That huff again. "They'll just think that the boy was doing what boys do. Climbing things, or being stupid. And he hurt himself. That's what he'll be telling them, anyway."

"And what about the bruises?" Petunia asked, worriedly. "I saw his face. He's black and blue! We can't send him in like that."

"We'll phone him in sick. Leave him in the cupboard, until the bruises heal… Then send him back in a few days' time."

That was the end of the conversation, and some kind of resolution must have been reached, because the cupboard was unlocked without warning, and Harry was dragged out into the light.

In the hallway, Harry could see that his left arm was indeed hanging at a rather strange angle, though he didn't have a mirror to view his own face.

"Get your coat, you're going to the hospital," his aunt told him sharply. Harry did what he was told, though it emerged that he could not put the coat on. He settled for wrapping it about his shoulders, like a cloak.

He was standing at the door, waiting for his aunt and uncle.

"No, I'm not going," he heard. "You broke his arm. You can take him."

The volume of their conversation dropped then to low and angry whispers, and Harry was glad that he couldn't hear what was being said. He only hoped that when they got back, he wasn't in even more trouble for causing them the inconvenience of a hospital visit.

A minute later, Uncle Vernon returned. Alone. "Come on, boy. Get in the car."

There was something about the hospital that made Harry think he'd been there before, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. A&E didn't seem familiar to him: filled with people, most of whom had no obvious injury. Doctors and nurses intermittently wandered through, sometimes taking with them a patient or two, and it seemed like forever until one of those patients was Harry.

The nurse who took Harry away to be x-rayed was easily as tall as Uncle Vernon, but as thin as Aunt Petunia, and her brown eyes were warmer than either of his guardians'.

"Hello, Harry, my name's Catherine," she greeted him, taking a moment to pin some of her long brown hair back into its ponytail. "I hear you've broken your arm."

In answer, Harry held his arm out to her, letting her see the strange angle it was now held at. She frowned at the sight of it, and her eyes quickly scanned over the bruises on his face.

"How did you break your arm, Harry?"

Harry swallowed and searched the ground with his eyes, whilst his mind searched for a plausible excuse.

"Hey, it's all right, you can tell me," she said, kneeling down to his level. "However it happened, you can tell me anything."

Finally, Harry looked up to her. His story in place. "I was doing something I shouldn't have been," he said, adding a slight quaver to his voice in the way he'd noticed Dudley doing when he was pretending to cry. "I was climbing up the banister… and I—I slipped and fell, and I hit my arm and…"

He broke off then, and looked intently at the ground again. He was sure that the added sniffling would be enough for her to stop asking him questions.

"Oh dear," said Catherine, watching him carefully. "That was careless of you, wasn't it?"

He nodded pitifully, hating the sensation of deceiving someone.

"How did you get the bruises on your face?" she asked then, when she lead him into a small room off the main corridor.

Harry didn't answer immediately, but was taken up by looking at the strange machine hanging from the ceiling. It looked, in a way, like a projector, hanging over a tabletop. At the other side of the room, was a small desk hidden behind a plastic screen.

Catherine, seeing his preoccupation, explained to him about the x-ray machine. "You'll just sit down there, like this, and put your arm on the table. It's like having a picture taken of your arm. You'll just hear a click, and that's it."

"It won't hurt then?"

She smiled at him. "Not at all. You don't feel anything when normal pictures are taken, do you?" he shook his head, though he was not at all sure anyone had ever taken a picture of him in his life.

It was only a little later on, when she left Harry in the waiting room in the care of another nurse, that she realised Harry had never told her where the bruises had come from.

"Mr Dursley, if you don't mind coming with me a moment," she said to the large man in Accident and Emergency.

He followed her reluctantly, and to Catherine, he appeared thoroughly put out by the whole experience of taking his ward to the hospital.

When she was sure they were out of Harry's range of hearing, she spoke to him. "So how exactly did your son sustain his injuries today?"

"He is NOT my son," he hissed viciously. If she was surprised by his vehemence, she didn't show it. "That… that _boy_ is my nephew."

She kept her face expressionless, filing away his reactions for further examination later. "Very well, your nephew then. How did he come to break his arm and receive such extensive bruising?"

"He's a troublesome child," Vernon told her, his rage dissipating. "He gets into fights often with the other children at school, and I understand that one of them pushed him off the swings earlier on. As for the bruising, it's been there a few days. Fighting with some older children."

She nodded thoughtfully, appearing to accept his words at face value. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr Dursley. You and your nephew may return home shortly, just as soon as we have a cast put on Harry's arm."

He nodded, and returned to the waiting room, to find that Harry had already been taken for his plaster cast making.

Catherine wasn't present when Harry was discharged from the hospital, some three hours after he was first admitted, but as soon as she was able, she found a free computer on the ground floor and logged herself in.

"Potter, Harry," she murmured to herself, typing his name into the patient database. "Bingo."

A cursory examination of his records showed that he was frequently admitted to the hospital, as much as two or three times a year, though his visits had tailed off lately. It was always with some kind of accidental break or particularly bad cut. His doctors had never been the same….

And there at the bottom.

_Investigation by Social Services pending._

Then shortly afterwards: _Investigation conclusive – child in safe, comfortable environment. No further investigation required._ It had been dated a few months previous. She frowned, and skimmed further until she found the names of those involved.

Claire Faraday. Her phone number was underneath it. Catherine's mouth set in a thin line, and quickly, she wrote the phone number across the back of her hand, and switched the computer off.

Wordlessly, she promised Harry to investigate as best she could, just as soon as her shift was over.

The ringing was loud and insistent in her ear. Claire nearly threw herself out of bed, searching for her phone on her bedroom floor, an eerie glow from the bottom of the bed, her only clue as to its location.

"Hello, Claire Faraday," she barked into it, perhaps a little more harshly than necessary.

Her irritation at being woken at midnight, when she had only recently got to sleep, vanished when she realised who the call was about.

"Yes, Harry Potter. I remember him," she said into the receiver, lying back on the bed, and thanking her lucky stars that her husband was a deep sleeper. "A broken arm? Anything else?"

Beside her, her husband rolled over in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible.

"Extensive bruising… I see. What? Investigation closed? I don't think so!"

And the rage was back. She threw on a dressing gown without letting her phone leave her ear, as she processed all that was being fed to her. She was thankful to be speaking with the nurse who had dealt with Harry and his uncle together.

Once she was out of the bedroom, she stormed into her office in the spare room. "Absolutely not, I never closed that case. I wrote a report saying that further investigation was certainly required, and I went to the boy's teacher to let him know all about the details," she told the nurse insistently.

In a few minutes, she'd switched on her computer, and was onto her departmental website, skimming through records of children.

"_Investigation deemed satisfactory, and closed from hereon by a Mr A. Dumbledore_," Claire read down the phone to Catherine. "I don't even know who he is!"

Nothing was said between the two women for a few very long, stressful seconds. "I… Yes, I agree. I'll do something about it first thing," Claire promised. "I'll be around to the hospital for a copy of his medical records, too, if that's all right? … Marvellous, I'll be there about ten thirty. Thank you. Thank you for letting me know. Good night."

"What the hell was that about?" Jonathan asked her, when she finally rolled back into bed.

"You remember the boy I went to see a few weeks back in Little Whinging, Harry?" she asked him, fluffing her pillow behind her head. "Well, he's just had a broken arm set this evening, and when the nurse went to look at his case files, the investigation was closed."

"So, can't you re-open it?" he asked, trying hard to hide his yawn.

She frowned into the darkness. "That's just it. I never closed it – I specifically wrote to the department head for permission for further investigation, which I received, and on the system, it says the case was closed by some guy I've never even heard of!"

He paused. "You think someone's meddling then? Someone who wants to keep this quiet?"

"That's all I can imagine," she sighed. "But when I met his aunt and uncle, they just don't seem like the kind of people with high enough connections for that kind of thing."

"You never can tell," he reminded her. "Do you want me to look into it, too?"

She smiled at him, though he never saw it. "I don't think I need the police involved, just yet, though I might bear your offer in mind if I can't get this mess sorted out soon."

"So what's the plan, honey?" he asked, this time, not bothering to hide the yawn.

"I'm going to phone the kid's teacher and see if he turns up at school tomorrow, and if not then I'm going to tell him what happened – he seemed pretty keen to do whatever he could to help," she said, thinking back to her afternoon spent in Simon's house, drinking tea with him and his volatile younger brother. "Then I'm meeting this nurse, Catherine, at the hospital to get his records, then I'm going to go around to the house and see what the hell's going on and see if I can get a straight answer out of his aunt, and then… then I suppose I better ask the neighbours about them."

"Sounds like a wonderful day," Jonathan deadpanned next to her.

"Yeah, and that's not the end of it. Before I set off to do all that, I'm going to email the department head and ask who the hell this A. Dumbledore is, and then at the end of the day, if I've not got an answer, I'm going to try and trace him myself. That part, I may require your help for." She finished in a rush, taking a gulp of air when she'd done.

She turned over to scope out her husband's face in the darkness, only to receive a snore instead of a reply. She huffed slightly, before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and going back to sleep herself.


	18. Kidnap

Chapter Eighteen

Simon took the register calmly, and marked Harry's absence calmly next to his name. Calm. That was the way he was going to act today, as if Harry's absence wasn't eating at him constantly, as if he wasn't incessantly blaming himself for his mysterious disappearance.

Harry was never off school. He trudged there through the rare bouts of heavy snow and when he was clearly sick with the 'flu. There was nothing that would keep him at home, or rather, there was nothing that would make Petunia allow him to stay home.

It was for this reason that Simon's stomach lurched when he failed to see Harry's usually cheerful face in his captive audience. He couldn't dwell on it, he couldn't! He had a class to teach, and he could investigate Harry's disappearance later on.

When the children went outside for their morning break, he resisted the urge to beat his head against his heavy wooden desk. Already, his fingernails had left painful crescent indentations on his palms. His mind was racing through all the possible ways Harry could have been punished and forced to stay at home. He replayed his conversation with the Dursleys last night in his head, and nearly succumbed to his desires to injure himself with his desk.

How could he have been so stupid?

Why didn't he think that the Dursleys would not take kindly to praise of their nephew, even if it was in tandem with greater praise of their own son?

He hated himself for it, and tried desperately to prevent his mind conjuring up images of the conversation and consequent injuries done to Harry's person.

The door opened behind him, and he turned around to see Dennis stick his head through it. "Telephone call for you in Jackie's office."

"Who is it?"

"Dunno… Hey, are you all right? You look a little pasty…" Dennis commented, watching his friend and colleague carefully.

Simon sighed. "I'm fine, Dennis, really, I am. I just need more sleep, that's all."

He rose to follow Dennis from the room, and realised as he did so that his hands were shaking.

In vain, Simon tried to still his hands when he picked up the receiver in Jackie's office. Jackie herself was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Mr Glass?" A familiar voice said on the other end of the line. "My name's Claire Faraday, you might remember I work for the Social Services department."

Simon was unsure whether or not to be relieved or panicked by a phone call from her.

"I recall," he said, trying hard to steady his breathing. "What have you phoned for?"

He listened intently to all she had to tell him, from Harry's broken arm, and Catherine's concern to the suspicious A. Dumbledore who had authority enough to close a case in secret.

"I've never heard of him," Simon told her truthfully. "It's not a name you'd forget too quickly, either."

"I know," Claire sighed on the other end of the line. "I've already begun my investigation into whoever he is… Have you seen Harry today then?" she asked suddenly, changing the topic of conversation.

"No," Simon admitted. "He hasn't come to school today. I imagine it's because of his arm."

Claire made a noise on the other end that seemed to signify that she thought it was doubtful. "I imagine it's more to do with the bruising on his face that they don't want anyone to see."

"Bruising?" Simon cried. "What kind of bruising?"

"Well, I don't know," Claire admitted. "I didn't see him myself, but Catherine seems to think it's serious enough to make you sit up and take notice if you saw him."

"Oh god…"

"What are you going to do now?" Claire asked him quietly.

Simon ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just don't know…"

"Any new developments you need to tell me about?"

"Nothing too serious. Intermittent injuries we've taken pictures of, and we've been recording Harry's recollections of his treatment at home," he said, trying again to even out his breathing.

"Hmmm, good. Hang onto it tightly," she advised. "I have a bad feeling that we'll be requiring it before long. Have you thought any further about how you want to go about getting him away from there?"

For the first time that day, Simon smiled. "Yes, and the more I think about it, the better it seems. I'll tell you all about it the next time we meet," he promised. "I think it'll work though."

"Good, you take care of yourself, too, Simon, and I hope to see both you and Harry safe soon."

They said their goodbyes and hung up the phones.

"Hey, I've had a message on the other line," Jackie said, walking back into her office when Simon put the phone down.

"Go on."

"Harry's not going to be in for a few days," she told him. "He's got a bad case of the 'flu apparently."

Simon snorted. "No he hasn't."

Jackie stared. "What are you talking about, Simon?"

He surveyed her carefully for a moment. "Nothing… I'll tell you about it later, okay?"

The bell rang from within the school, signifying that the morning break was at an end, and it was with a heavy heart that Simon returned back to his classroom.

The day had seemed interminable to Simon, who could only think about Harry for the duration of the afternoon. Even the children commented on his distraction periodically. He smiled and waved them off at the end of the day.

He got into his car, and drove back towards his home, feeling emptier than he had in months. Without knowing why, he drove towards Harry's house, stopping only once he reached the end of his street.

Behind him, he slammed the car door shut, and meandered down the pristine street. He remembered being here months ago, and listening to Harry's aunt berate him for his ineffective weeding skills in the garden.

The house was as ordinary looking as any other on the street. Perhaps a bit tidier, perhaps the flowers were a bit brighter for the love of a seven year old boy… Otherwise, it was an unremarkable house.

"Psst…" he turned around sharply. "Hey, you. Over here!"

Simon saw the old woman in the garden next door then. Her face was peeping out from behind her laurel tree, and with the green coat she was wearing, it looked as if she was part of the garden itself.

He trotted over to the fence, behind the laurel. If Petunia Dursley were to look through her front window now, she would never know he was there.

"Hello," Simon offered. "I'm Simon Glass."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then smiled faintly. "You're their teacher then," she stated, jerking her head towards the Dursley house. "Harry always speaks most highly of you. My name is Arabella Figg."

Those words froze Simon in his tracks. She knew Harry well enough to speak to him of such mundane topics as his teacher, and his school then. Who knew what else he said to her.

Throwing all caution to the winds, he asked, "Do you know anything of his life with them?" He too jerked his head towards the Dursley house.

"I am glad that is your reason for visiting here," she said neutrally. "I know only that yesterday evening, I was sitting in my living room. It's the room that sits against their hallway, you know," she gestured to the join between the two terraced houses. "I heard a crash, and heard shouting. Something hit the wall with a thump enough to knock several of my pictures of the mantelpiece. Then there was more shouting, more subdued this time, a cry of pain…"

She shivered then, and Simon could do nothing but the same.

"Did you see them leave the house at any point?" Simon asked, and again she smiled that same thin smile.

"You know what happened then?" she asked. "But I suppose you want to hear it just as much as she did earlier… Yes, I saw Harry leave with his uncle an hour later. He had his jacket over his shoulders like a cloak. It was dark by that point, but when Harry got into the car, I saw the light from the streetlamp on his face. It was shadowed in the strangest of places."

Simon's fears were confirmed. Harry's face was definitely heavily bruised when he made his way to the hospital, and it had not been when he had been at school that day.

"Who else was asking you questions about them?" Simon asked, more urgently.

"A young woman, perhaps your age," Arabella said, thinking back, "Average height and build, shoulder-length black hair…"

Claire then, he surmised. "I know her," he told her. "She works for social services. She's trying to help me get Harry away from here."

Suddenly, she looked older than her many years. "I'm not sure how much success you'll have with that," she said quietly. "There are higher forces at work here than two Mu—monsters like them. I'm not sure the system will work in your favour on this one."

He gave her a shrewd glance. "Social services has now lost Harry's records twice over, and after an investigation a few months ago, despite the lady who was here earlier giving explicit instructions for it to be continued, the case was closed suddenly," he told her. She did not react. "By a man called A. Dumbledore. Do you know anything about him?"

She looked away sharply the moment he mentioned that name. He grabbed her shoulders gently. "Who is he? I must know."

Arabella shook her head violently. "It will do you no good to speak that name. Stay under his radar, and you'll be fine," she promised. At his enquiring look, she sighed inwardly. This one wasn't leaving as easily as she'd hoped… and yet, if he had, what did that say for one entrusting himself with Harry's safety?

She started again. "I know nothing of him," she lied, "other than that he has some power within the government somewhere. I imagine he can get whatever he wants, and he's obviously doing a favour for someone."

She sighed inwardly. What else could she say to a mere Muggle?

The Muggle in question looked paler than usual, but didn't back down. "Right," he murmured under his breath, "I'll just have to be a bit unorthodox then."

Arabella smiled. "Truly, that is what you will have to do. Persisting with social services is only likely to draw you to his notice."

He made an aborted hand movement in the air, and turned to face her again. "Thank you for your help."

"Anything to help Harry out of there," she said quietly in reply. "Anything."

Simon slipped back into his car, shrouded by the shadows of the night, and unseen by any member of the Dursley family.

When he pulled up outside his home once again, and opened his front door, he felt more troubled than he had at the beginning of the day, when he had first noticed Harry's disappearance from his class.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jack demanded, the moment he walked through the front door.

"Harry's house."

Jack looked startled, and then concerned. "Why?"

Simon sighed. "Harry didn't turn up to school today, and then during my break, his social worker called to say that he'd been hospitalised with a broken arm and facial bruising," he explained, "and then, I went to his house for no particular reason, and ended up speaking to his neighbour, who saw Harry being taken to hospital, and says there's someone stopping social services helping him."

Jack whistled softly. "It sounds like we're trapped in some kind of novel! Half mystery—"

"Yeah, and it'll be half tragedy if we don't get Harry out of there soon," Simon said, cutting him off. "It's already tragic enough."

"We could go to the media," Jack suggested tentatively. "Social services being held back from helping a child in need by mysterious sources."

Simon felt cold at these words. Though it could be the fastest route to helping Harry escape, he was sure that he would never see him again in that case. The plan he was hoping to put into action would leave Harry as his own ward, permanently. He hoped that one day Harry would forgive him for prolonging his misery at that house just a little longer to ensure he fell to his hands.

"So that's clearly not going to happen," Jack said, breaking the silence. His brother had been staring morosely into space for a good minute. "What's the plan?"

"I'm going to go over there and rescue him."

Jack blinked. "Er… what?"

"I'm going to go over there either tonight, or tomorrow night… maybe tomorrow would be better, and I'm going to take him back," Simon explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You're insane! There's no way they're going to let you into their house!" Jack cried.

"I'll think of something," Simon told him grimly.

The next day passed slowly once more for Simon, who spent his day teaching on autopilot, and worrying incessantly over Harry. The students were quiet and subdued, matching his own mood, and the other teachers were keeping well out of his way.

It wasn't until seven o'clock at night that he slipped his jacket on over his school clothes, and left his quiet house for another.

"Mr Glass, how lovely to see you again," Petunia said, greeting him warmly at the door of their home.

"The pleasure is all mine," he told her warmly. "I just had to come over and congratulate you personally on your son's success in the tests administered over the last few days. He certainly has been extraordinary."

Petunia beamed at him, and took his coat. "Please, come through this way to the lounge. Dinner will be ready shortly."

Simon was left alone momentarily, whilst he seated himself in the lounge, a drink in his hand. He wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to come marching into the Dursley household, but he hoped it worked. He had yet to see hide or hair of Harry, though their son Dudley had been waddling around and appearing very pleased with himself.

Their house was what he had expected on the inside. Utterly impersonal, except for the pictures on the walls. None of which featured Harry. In fact, were it not for the fact that he was there solely to save aforementioned child, he would wonder if he had the wrong house altogether.

"Please, come through to dinner," Petunia simpered, a short while later. It had felt like eternity to Simon, who had spent the last twenty minutes being talked at by Vernon Dursley. The man certainly knew a lot about drills, Simon thought, repressing a sigh of relief. He left the room perhaps a little more quickly than was polite, and made for the kitchen.

The table was set for four.

"Won't your nephew be joining us tonight?" Simon asked, careful not to mention Harry's first name, for fear of it aggravating them further.

Even at such a reference to the boy, Vernon's face darkened.

"He's away with a neighbour," Petunia explained. "Mrs Figg kindly offered to tend to him in his illness."

Simon nodded absently, and took the seat that was offered to him.

He felt his heart sink at that declaration. He had hoped that he could come here and grab Harry, and run away. Clearly, that wasn't going to be the way things worked, if Petunia had just pushed the boy onto a neighbour for the duration of his illness. And yet, he couldn't place it, but it was if the boy had some kind of physical presence… He was almost certain that Harry was in the house somewhere.

The meal was a talkative one, at least on the part of the Dursleys. They talked constantly. Of Dudley. Simon felt like he would never get the taste of the foul compliments he paid Dudley and his family out of his mouth that night.

Simon had to admit that the food wasn't as terrible as he'd expected it would be. The main course had been a lovely joint of roast beef, and he'd eaten it with relish. Perhaps he ought to start trying to cook a few more wholesome meals for him and Jack, instead of living off quick fixes of beans on toast, he mused.

When the trifle was brought out, Simon almost smiled. He loved trifle. It was placed on the table, and plates were given to each of them. And then he noticed it. Carved slightly into the centre of the trifle was a small lightning bolt… exactly the same shape as the one carved into Harry's sweet forehead.

His stomach did a somersault at the realisation, and three possibilities presented themselves as for it being there. The first, that Harry had been forced to make the trifle, and had decided to leave his mark on it for his notice. The second, that Harry had been resentful of being left out of dinner, and had carved it in to upset his aunt and uncle. And the third, was that Dudley had done it to try to get him in trouble.

Dudley didn't even notice it, and nor did the rest of his family. A moment later, and the trifle had been mutilated by spooning some out onto each of their plates, and the image had gone. Perhaps Harry had been helping out with the food, Simon mused.

"I'm sorry, but where is your toilet, please?" Simon asked, once the meal was over. Vernon directed him to a room upstairs, and he gladly slipped away.

Once he'd used the faculties, he made a quick search of the upstairs rooms, but didn't find any sign of Harry whatsoever. In fact, it appeared that the child didn't even have a room up there. There was the room that was clearly Vernon and Petunia's. Next to it, their son's – filled with computer games. The bathroom. And one other small room, that was filled with broken toys, and old books. There wasn't even a bed in that room.

Simon frowned, and slipped back down the stairs. Perhaps Harry's room was on the ground floor – he had seen that before – and it wouldn't have surprised him if they had wanted to keep him away from their family.

But when he went downstairs, he found only the rooms he had seen before – the lounge on the right, next to it the combined kitchen and dining room. There were no other rooms.

He froze in the hallway, confusion overtaking him. It was only by chance that he noticed the cupboard under the stairs, when he snagged his sleeve on the bolt on the outside of the door.

Simon frowned again. What was in that cupboard that they needed locking in?

The obvious answer chilled him, and without knowing why, he pressed the palm of his hand against the door. It was the closest he could do to reaching out to the child he could manage at that moment.

He re-entered the kitchen, and feigned pleasure at the coffee that was given to him, and continued to sully himself further with the excessive complimenting of Dudley Dursley.

"Yes, as I was saying earlier," Simon said, hoping he was hiding his derision as well as he hoped, "I've never met a child as remarkable as Dudley… he truly is a marvel."

He winced slightly, anyone with any sense would know he was laying it on far too thick. Clearly, these people had no sense, he realised, when the Dursleys fussed over their son again.

"Oh Dudders," Petunia cried, "I always knew you'd get all the intelligence of the family."

Simon shuddered; if Dudley had received all the intelligence of the family, they must all be sharing the same few brain cells. He could only be thankful that they'd never had any more children that he would later be required to teach.

It was another hour later, when Dudley was sent to bed, and the adults retired to the lounge to drink and talk further. It was another hour still, of mind-numbing boredom, before Simon could leave.

He excused himself, feigning another requirement for the toilet, but this time, he travelled no further than the hallway.

His heart began to thump heavily in his chest, when he reached out his hand for the bolt on the cupboard under the stairs. Simon realised with a start that his hands were shaking, and that he had no idea what kind of condition he'd find Harry in. If he found him at all.

A quiet click, and the door swung open.

Harry lay sleeping, curled up on a small makeshift bed. An old, worn blanket was all he had to keep warm, but for his clothes. A few broken toys littered the floor, and Simon felt his heart ache uncomfortably.

"Harry, wake up," he whispered, placing a hand gently on the boy's shoulder.

Harry shot upright instantly, a wild look in his eyes, which softened instantly when he saw his teacher kneeling next to him. Confusion took over then.

"What's going on?" Harry whispered.

"We're escaping."

The boy didn't hesitate for even a moment, before pulling himself to his feet in silence, and leaving the cupboard. A moment later, he had thrown himself into Simon's arms, relief colouring his features.

There were no more words. Simon rearranged the child in his arms, and shut the door behind them. Quickly, he hurried down the hall, and opened the front door without a sound. He was grateful that the Dursleys had closed their front curtains, to hide their running away.

It would be another twenty-five minutes before Petunia would huff, and wonder aloud what was taking their guest so long in the bathroom. It would be another ten before she went to investigate. Another fifteen before she realised that the boy had disappeared also, and by that time, Harry and Simon had both been back at Simon's for some time.

"Call the police," she snapped at her husband. "He's kidnapped the boy."

Unaware of the law forces that were speeding their way, Simon, Jack and Harry curled up comfortably in their home, each drinking cocoa, and relieved that the three of them were safe together.


	19. Crash

A/N: You know how it is when real life gets in the way... Well, I've finished this story now. This isn't the last chapter, but it's getting there.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

Jonathan Faraday sighed grimly and hung the phone up on its receiver.

"Kidnapping in Little Whinging," he announced to his office, who looked up in surprise.

"Kidnapping?" his second in command repeated, "Who?"

Jonathan looked back down at the notes he'd taken. Seven-year-old Harry snatched from his home by seemingly trustworthy teacher Simon Glass, and what's more, they even had the kidnapper's address. He frowned and looked away from his untidy scrawl, before looking back a moment later.

"Boss?"

"Not now, Jones," he snapped, and stalked out of the office. There was something about the whole episode that seemed… familiar.

Having made his decision, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial.

The phone rang twice. "Jonathan, are you all right?"

He smiled at his wife's automatic concern for his well-being. "I'm fine, but I've just got this kidnapping case through and—"

"I'm really busy right now and—"

"Clare!" Jonathan barked, interrupting. "What's the name of the child case you're dealing with today?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Harry. He's called Harry Potter."

"And does he have a teacher called Simon Glass? And an aunt and uncle Dursley?"

He could almost hear Clare frowning down the phone.

"How did you know?" Clare asked. "What's going on?"

"I knew I recognised that name," Jonathan said. "I'm about to send a team over to Ashcroft Way to arrest Simon Glass for the kidnapping of one Harry Potter."

"WHAT?"

"The Dursleys phoned it in half an hour ago," he told her, "but it's they who are hurting him, I remember you saying."

"Oh god," Clare breathed, "What am I going to do? Can you stop this?"

Jonathan sighed heavily. "I'm sure I can brush the whole thing off as a misunderstanding on Glass' part, or theirs…"

"But?"

"But Harry's going to have to go back with them," he explained.

"What?" Claire shrieked, loud enough that Jonathan had to hold the receiver away from his ear. "Absolutely not! How can you return him to them in good faith?"

"And what would you have me do?" he snapped. "My job is to uphold the law. I can't just leave a child with a supposed kidnapper! I'll lose my job!"

On the other end of the line, Jonathan heard something that sounded like a stifled sob.

"Look, why don't you go with Harry back to his relatives, give them a good threatening," Jonathan suggested, "and I'll concentrate on not arresting Glass. How does that sound?"

A sniffle. "Not much better than just arresting him."

Jonathan sighed. "We'll be arriving at Glass' house in about fifteen minutes. That should give you enough time to get there first."

"See you soon."

There was a soft click on the other end of the line, and Claire was gone.

Pushing his phone back into his pocket, he grabbed his hat from where it hung by the door and walked back into his office.

"So what's going on with the kidnapping case, chief?" Jones asked, the moment he entered.

"I've just spoken with someone who's there from social services, and it sounds like it's all a misunderstanding," he explained.

"Really, sounds to me like he was on the phone to his wife," one of his officers muttered.

"Watch your mouth, Wilkins," Jonathan warned. "Anyway, you can never be certain with this kind of thing, so we're going to check it out anyway."

"Of course we are," Jones said bitterly. Sighing, Jonathan left the office with Wilkins and Jones behind him, the latter muttering darkly about wild goose chases.

* * *

"I know how you feel, really I do," Jonathan said, laying a hand on the man's shoulder, "but it's technically kidnapping and they can demand the boy back."

Simon sighed. "I didn't think – I just took him. They had him locked in a cupboard for God's sake."

"I know but there's no evidence suggesting any further damage. With what we've got, Dursley is definitely going to court for child cruelty, but he'll probably get a suspended sentence. Unless you or any one else has any more damning evidence, that is."

He peered closely at Simon; Clare had hinted that he might have some evidence of his own, and if he did, then this would certainly be the time to share it. Simon shook his head, and Jonathan sighed inwardly. What could he possibly be hiding it for?

Simon shook his head. There was nothing he could tell the police officer that he wasn't already planning to use against the Dursleys himself as soon as possible.

"It makes no sense," Simon frowned. "They don't even want him!"

"They don't want him to be happy," Jonathan amended. "They'd rather make his – and their – lives miserable by keeping him in their own custody than allow him to be happy elsewhere."

"They must have some price that they're willing to give him up for," Simon sighed.

Jonathan looked at him sharply. "Are you sure that you're capable of taking him into your own custody? It's very different to just looking after him at intervals."

Simon shrugged. "He's already seven, and doesn't have quite the level of dependency as a newborn." Seeing Jonathan's dubious look, he added, "And I've family in the area. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to help out."

Jonathan nodded. "Well, if you think your negotiations for Harry will come to fruition soon, I can arrange a CRB check and I'm sure my wife can send you the adoption papers. All you'll need to do is to get them to sign them in front of witnesses."

Simon nodded, dumbstruck, and the police officer left his house. He sat down in his unnaturally quiet living room. If all went well, in a few days, Harry would be sharing this house with him permanently. The thought amazed him, and was overpowering in its intensity. He would have beaten the Dursleys, and Harry would be saved from his wretched relatives. All he needed now was to try to figure out how best to present his proposal to the Dursleys, and when.

On the other side of town, Vernon Dursley drove the boy back to their house. It had been very gratifying indeed to watch the wretched teacher squirm under the eyes of the policeman, but it had been less than pleasant when the teacher had begun to describe his treatment of the boy. 'Despicable'? 'Barbaric'? Well perhaps he had hit the boy a mite too hard on occasion, but the boy required discipline. Spare the rod and spoil the child and all that. And the boy was ungrateful and as disobedient as they came… not to mention the – No, best not to think about his freakishness.

Really though, to dare to summon him to court for his treatment of the boy was certainly going too far in his book. The boy didn't deserve such protection. If they only knew what a freak he was…

They pulled up outside the house, and Vernon uttered a sharp "Out!" before hauling himself out of the car.

Clare gave him a thin smile as she stepped out of her own vehicle parked behind his own. She had dared to follow him back from the teacher's house, apparently to make sure that no further harm came to the boy until he reached the protection of his aunt. This whole escapade had only brought more shame onto their family, and it was all the boy's fault. He could see the neighbours peering out at them from their front rooms, curtains twitching away, and grit his teeth. Petunia was going to be furious.

"What do you think you—oh." Petunia's speech cut off suddenly when she saw the social worker walk into their house behind her husband and the boy.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs Dursley," Clare said in a crisp, business-like tone. "If I might speak with you and your husband in private, please." She gestured to Dudley, who was hovering on the stairs, and glanced briefly at Harry, who was standing beside her.

"Boy, get in your—er, go sit in the lounge for a while," Uncle Vernon snapped at Harry, who hastily complied.

Once the door had closed behind him, he stared around in wonder. It was rare for him to be allowed in this room on his own. The last time he had been in there was when Clare had visited him the previous time. He had no idea what he was expected to do with himself; his relatives had made it perfectly clear in the past that they expected him to stay off the furniture. However, they had also told him to stay out of that room all together, so he wasn't sure what to expect.

Gingerly, he sat down on the edge of the closest sofa, and when Uncle Vernon didn't come bursting through the door in a rage moments later, he sat down more comfortably, and looked with interest around the room.

It was similar to the rest of the house, with its manifold pictures of Dudley, but the furniture and everything in it was slightly nicer, and better decorated. Harry was aware that they usually brought all their guests into that room, and he was beginning to see why.

Through the wall, he could only hear vague snippets of conversation, usually when Uncle Vernon raised his voice. He wasn't sure entirely what was going on, but Harry himself was also mentioned fairly frequently. It sounded like Uncle Vernon was going to be sent somewhere if he didn't treat him more fairly. Harry frowned. That didn't sound like something that was likely to happen. After all, who would care if anything happened to him or not?

It was a while later when his eyes closed, and he slipped into a light doze. When he awoke, it was to Uncle Vernon's infuriated face inches from his own. He was grabbed roughly by his collar and thrown quite literally through the door to the lounge.

"Vernon, don't!" Aunt Petunia cried. "You heard what that woman said, if you hurt him again then they might consider imprisonment!"

Uncle Vernon stared down at Harry, his beady eyes darting between Harry's own wild ones. A crack filled the air, and Harry fell suddenly to the floor, his face stinging. "I refuse to be told how to treat this… this… FREAK!" he yelled, and Harry knew that his chances of escape were gone when Aunt Petunia took a step back away from them, appearing afraid.

Harry closed his eyes, praying that it wouldn't be as awful as he was expecting.

He awoke to darkness.

There was a small line of light, but nothing else. He breathed a sigh of relief; he was in his cupboard, and from beneath the door came a single strip of light. Harry was safe in there. Vernon wouldn't dare try to fit inside the cupboard.

As he began to become more aware of his surroundings, he became more aware of himself, and the blinding pain in his arm. A vague recollection of having being knocked to the floor, and landing on his arm at a strange angle floated through his mind. When he breathed in deeply, he felt a strange pain lancing through his chest, and a dizzy sensation followed it swiftly. There was definitely something strange wrong with him.

Outside the door he could hear shouting.

"…idiot!... what's wrong with him?..."

"…re-broken his arm…"

"…wasn't even breathing!…"

It sounded like Aunt Petunia was giving Uncle Vernon a serious chewing out, Harry thought, and smiled to himself. He'd always liked it when Uncle Vernon was in trouble for once. She was getting louder, and Harry frowned in confusion; it sounded like they were talking about him. He had been told his broken arm was healing well, but now Uncle Vernon had broken it again? That didn't sound good.

The cupboard door was flung open without warning, and Harry winced against the sharp light that filled the tiny cupboard. When he looked down at his clothes, he realised that there were patches of blood that hadn't been there before.

"Get out, boy," Aunt Petunia snapped tersely.

"Where're we going?" Harry asked, sleepily.

"We're dropping you off at the hospital," she explained. "and we expect you not to tell the hospital that you fell off your bike and hurt your arm."

"But I don't even own a—"

"You'll do as I say," she ordered, her tone brooking no disagreement.

Harry nodded, and tried to get to his feet. That strange dizzy sensation shot through him again, and the world tilted strangely. Instead of standing up, as he'd expected to do, he was curled up on the floor, staring up at his Aunt and Uncle in confusion.

Uncle Vernon said a string of words that he'd only heard from some of the older boys at school, and slammed his fist against the wall, and Aunt Petunia looked ready to burst into tears.

"Vernon, what have you done?" she sobbed.

Uncle Vernon's face turned an ugly shade of purple, and he bent down towards Harry, who instinctively flinched away. He grabbed the boy firmly, and lifted him into the air. Harry gasped as his arm and chest began to hurt more fiercely than he could ever remember them having done before.

"What are you going to do with him?" he heard Aunt Petunia ask, almost fearfully.

"I'm taking the little wretch to the hospital, what do you think?" he barked.

"But what will the neighbours think?"

"They'll think nothing," he snapped back at her, and grabbed one of his jackets from the back of the door. Before Harry knew what was happening, Uncle Vernon had smothered him in the large jacket, covering him from head to toe, and hiding the fact that there was a boy underneath it at all. "Perhaps we ought to go out to get away from all this and think about things."

Harry couldn't see or hear anything, but Aunt Petunia must have agreed, because a few minutes later, he was being banged around painfully, as Uncle Vernon carried him out to the car, and he could hear Aunt Petunia and Dudley following behind them.

He heard the car door open, and he was thrown roughly inside the car. It slammed shut, and Harry hastily pulled the jacket off himself. He blinked uncertainly when he realised he was in total darkness, and began to panic when he found that the space he was in was too low to even sit up fully.

But he could still hear his relatives, and when the car started a few moments later, he came to the conclusion that Uncle Vernon had thrown him into the boot of the car.

The journey was a painful one, and seemed to be going on for a long time. He often heard snippets of conversation that were aimed at him. Uncle Vernon would occasionally raise his voice to shout something in his direction. "…Would have been fine IF THAT FREAK hadn't…" and other phrases came his way.

He felt the car turning, and he slid slightly to one side.

"..wouldn't have mattered if it wasn't for THAT FREAK who…" but whatever Uncle Vernon had been about to say was cut off suddenly by Aunt Petunia's shrill scream.

The car jolted violently to the side, and there was a series of strange sounds. Sounds of crunching metal, and the shattering of glass. The pain from the sudden movement had left Harry feeling dizzier and more breathless than before, and even as he heard sirens somewhere in the background, he fell into unconsciousness.

The next few hours were a blur for Harry. He remembered men's voices sounding worried, and sirens again, louder this time. The vague feeling that he had been pushed through a busy room on some kind of trolley. Finally, he felt certain that he'd seen the face of the kind nurse he'd seen before, the last time he'd broken his arm.

"Don't worry, Harry, you'll be fine," she'd whispered to him. He frowned, sure that this must only have been a dream


	20. Conditional

Chapter Twenty

The hospital was a quiet place. Only the slight beeping of the machines around him filled the air, and the soft breathing of the boy in the bed added a background rhythm. The room was small, but sufficient. He suspected that it was serious if Harry was so very isolated from the other children, with whom he would usually be in a ward. There were cards on every available surface, and Simon had to smile at some of the messages in them. Jack's was verging on inappropriate for a child, Florence's filled with her natural kindness, and even their parents had managed to write a card conveying their love for him. There was something strange about the card sent by Mr Bones, but he couldn't place it, nor look at it for long, and Janie in the library, her mother, and Jackie, Stephen and the other teachers, Mrs Stone and her sons. Arabella Figg also sent a card, and Claire and Jonathan, the former of whom had smiled kindly when he said he had a plan, and had hugged him fiercely after he told her.

He had never known anyone make so many friends so very easily as Harry, and he was thankful that he had these people in his life to look out for him when he needs them.

In the bed, Harry stirred. Green eyes blinked and stared at him through a fog of sleep. "Mr Glass?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here, Harry." A small hand gripped his as tightly as it could, and the pain and fatigue on the young face receded just a little.

The nurse stood in the doorway watching for a moment, and left with a slight smile from Simon. Catherine had been Harry's nurse before, he remembered. His other hand pushed Harry's fringe from his eyes, and his thumb carefully ran over the old scar on his forehead.

"Don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere," Simon promised, wondering if Harry could hear the protectiveness that rose into his voice of its own accord. The boy smiled, and he suspected that he could. "Are you feeling better?"

Harry tried to nod, and winced at the sharp pain in his neck. "Yeah, a lot better, thanks. Are _they _here?"

Simon paused a moment before answering. He hadn't wanted Harry to know that his relatives were in the same hospital after the car crash, but it stood to reason that they would be. Ironically, Harry had sustained minimal injuries, compared to his relatives because he had been in the boot of the car cushioned by the old bedding and sleeping bags that had been stuffed in there. Unlike the three Dursleys who had been hurt more for sitting in the seats where the collision had taken place. Of course, the injuries that he'd already acquired from Vernon were far more substantial than any that had been acquired in the crash. He was just thankful that the broken rib hadn't punctured his lung, as had been feared originally.

"Yes, they are." Simon felt his hand being squeezed harder, if that were even possible. "They're nowhere near here though. They're two floors down, and Jonathan's standing guard outside for you."

"The policeman?" Harry asked. Simon nodded.

He wasn't even sure if he'd meant it seriously when he'd asked Jonathan to come to the hospital to take a statement from Harry, and had tacked on to the end that he could guard him, too. Less than an hour later, when he'd stepped out to get some more coffee, he'd found Claire's husband standing outside in his full police uniform, back straight, and his eyes narrowed while he stared from one end of the corridor to the other.

"No trouble whilst I'm around," he'd been assured. Simon had to admit, it filled him with warmth to know that there was a member of the law enforcement keeping _that family_ away from his… his charge, he settled for.

Simon watched Harry fall back asleep, his fingers never leaving his. He wasn't sure how his plan was going to go. It could end up with his never seeing the boy again if he was taken into custody of the state… or it could go entirely a different way, as he hoped. Either way, that day was going to be a pivotal one for Harry, he was certain.

It was a few hours later when Harry awoke again. Mr Glass was still holding his hand, and was talking to Jack who had taken up the chair on the other side of him. It was Jack who noticed he was awake first, and smiled brightly at him

"It's about time, Sleeping Beauty!" he said, with brightness which didn't quite ring true to Harry.

Mr Glass smiled faintly. "We need to ask you to tell us, Jonathan and Claire everything that happened, do you think you can do that?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully. After all, if he could live through it, then he was sure he could tell them everything that happened, he reasoned firmly with himself. Mr Glass looked faintly surprised, but pleased he noticed.

As if called, the policeman and his social service worker came in from the other side of the door. Behind them stood Catherine, his nurse. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, giving her permission to stay.

It took a few moments for everyone to become settled, pulling chairs in from other rooms, and Simon was left perching on the edge of Harry's bed in the end.

"Okay…" Harry started, taking a deep breath and looking up at them. He smiled faintly, and looked down at the bed. The support he felt from them overwhelmed him, but he was glad they were there. Slowly he began to tell his story, with much elbowing of Jack when he couldn't keep quiet, the sound of Jonathan's pencil taking down as much as possible of what he said. He had been aware of someone sniffling, and he suspected the young nurse, Catherine.

Through it all, Mr Glass never let go of his hand.

* * *

"Thank you, Harry, that's fantastic," Jonathan said with a tight smile. "We'll need to take some photographs of your injuries as well at some point, but that can wait until tomorrow or so." He folded his little notebook back up, and put it into one of his many pockets. Simon smiled at Harry and ran his thumb over the back of his hand. In the background, he was vaguely aware that Jack was ignoring his pent up rage over the issue to comfort the inexperienced nurse, Catherine, who had been crying practically since Harry had begun speaking.

He hadn't realised how quiet they were being overall, until a loud voice came from outside the door. It was one which Simon had the displeasure of becoming quite well acquainted with. Vernon Dursley was standing outside, and it sounded like he had Petunia with him.

Harry tensed, drawing his legs up to his chest to protect himself. Instinctively, Simon sat next to Harry, pulling the boy against his side, and wrapping both arms as tightly as he felt able to around his frail body.

"That little freak's in here, I'm sure of it," Vernon said loudly. "I'm going to go in there and give him what for! Causing a crash that could have killed our Dudley—"

He was cut off when Jonathan threw the door open with such force that it came loose slightly in its hinges. "That's funny," Claire said coldly. "I can't imagine how he could have caused an accident when you'd locked him in the boot of your car."

"How did you…?" Vernon stuttered.

"The boy's lying," Petunia stated, cutting her husband off as quickly as she could.

"Perhaps, but I'm sure a cursory investigation of your car would let us know the truth quite quickly," Jonathan said icily.

Petunia's face appeared to lose some colour at that statement, Simon was pleased to note.

"Mr and Mrs Dursley," Simon said, speaking up for the first time. "May I speak to you outside for a moment, please?"

Harry's face was stricken at that, and he clung desperately to Simon's arms when he disentangled himself. Later, he would suspect that it was the expression of loss on their nephew's face which made them grant his request. He turned back to the room before leaving – Claire and Jonathan both looked happy and supportive, and Florence had taken his place, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry and stroking his hair.

Simon didn't bother to pull the door closed behind him, but he kept his back to the room, protecting Harry still, if he could.

Once outside, they turned their ugly faces to him in a grim parody of intimidation. "What is it you want, Glass? Spit it out, or hand me back my nephew to take home."

"It's actually about your nephew that I wish to speak with you about," Simon said carefully. He put his hands into his pockets, feeling them shaking even there, but thankful that at least now they wouldn't see his fear. "There is clear evidence on Harry's body of _years_ of physical abuse, and doctors and nurses have verified this many times over. I, myself, have collected evidence over the past year of your mistreatment of him."

Petunia seemed to harden when her husband became weak. "There's no way that you can hold up any kind of evidence against us. You have nothing, or social services would have taken us in long before now."

Her confidence and the way she said 'social services' made Simon sure that she was aware that someone was hiding evidence of Harry's case within the social services network. He wasn't sure whether it was them meddling personally, or if they had some particularly strong allies for whatever reason, but he knew now that he was doing the right thing. He was unlikely to ever make them enter a courtroom, and they all knew it.

"It doesn't change the fact that I have evidence against you," Simon said harshly. "Of course, I could be persuaded to keep it to myself under certain conditions…"

"You're blackmailing us!" Vernon barked at the top of his voice. Simon winced, and not for the first time, he was glad that he had the backing of a policeman in the next room for his unorthodox actions.

"What's your price?" Petunia asked, again cutting across her husband.

"Harry," Simon stated simply.

"What?" Vernon laughed. "What on earth do you want him for?" The look Simon received then was one of vague disgust, and Simon felt the bile rise in him just as his rage rose to its limit.

"I want custody of him," Simon said simply.

Vernon laughed again. "What, that pathetic little runt of a child? He's no worth to _anyone_."

"He has worth to me," Simon said staunchly. "He is the most amazing child I've ever had the privilege to meet, and you are the most disgusting excuse for—"

"Take him," Petunia said sharply. Next to her, Vernon's mouth hung agape. "I'll be glad to get him and his freakishness out of my home. He's been nothing but trouble."

"You'll sign the adoption papers?" Simon asked, trying not to let his uncertainty show. He had not expected it to be this easy. He had clearly overestimated their regard for him, if it were possible.

"On two conditions," Petunia stated coldly. Simon was ready to bash his head in against the wall. Of course it wasn't going to be easy. "I want control of his high school education."

It was only the strange cruel tilt to her smile which made him hesitate, but really, there was nothing she could do. Harry would go to a high school which was nearest, and for which he was in the catchment area. She couldn't send him to a dreadful school, for there were none in the area, and she couldn't send him away because he had to live near whatever state school he went to, and he would be registered at his address. _His_ address! Harry was going to live with him!

"Fine," Simon said. "What else?"

"He lives with us for two weeks of the summer. You can do whatever the hell you want with him for the rest of the fifty weeks, and you can give him your name, but I want those two weeks with him," she said bluntly.

Simon practically reeled as if struck. It was the last thing he had expected her to say. She wanted rid of him, and there was no way he could see her wanting to spend two weeks of her summer with the child she loathed.

How could he in good conscience send Harry back to them, knowing how they treated him?

"No harm will come to him," Petunia added, seeing his doubt. "We'll feed him and ignore him for two weeks and then he can go back to you."

Simon nodded his acceptance. "I don't understand your conditions."

She smiled again, unpleasantly. "I assure you, one day you'll understand everything perfectly, of that I'm sure. Come over one week today and we'll have our solicitor draft the adoption papers. You needn't bring the boy."

With that, the two of them vanished from sight down the corridor.

Stunned, his success not yet hitting him, Simon turned back around to the group. Jack laughed loudly, and Catherine promptly burst back into tears. Claire threw her arms around him. "You did it, Simon!"

A hand rested heavily on his shoulder. "Well done," Jonathan said, with more warmth than Simon had ever heard of him.

"Harry?" Simon asked, cautiously. He hadn't even asked Harry if he'd wanted this before going ahead, despite what he may have said in the past. The boy was staring at him as if he'd grown another head. "You're coming to live with me now, Harry?"

Suddenly, as if something had spurred him to act, despite all his injuries, Harry leapt to his feet on the bed, and threw himself into Simon's arms. "Is it true? Am I really coming to live with you?"

"Yes, Harry, you really are. I'll be your family now."

"We'll be your family now, don't you mean?" Jack interjected.

Simon smiled and tightened his hold around Harry, and Harry's arms relaxed slightly around his neck. The boy's head was buried in the crook of his neck, and when Simon freed a hand to run through his soft hair, he felt his shirt becoming damp. Harry had burst into tears.

Simon looked around the group, alarmed. But when Harry spoke again, he was reassured beyond doubt. "T-thank you, thank you so much."


	21. The Best Day

Thank you to everyone who has read this, and reviewed, throughout. I hope you've enjoyed this story.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

The sun had come out for the first time in nearly a week, and for that, Simon was undyingly grateful. Their small garden looked all the better for it, though it would have looked better still if he'd had the chance to tidy more effectively. The shrubbery was still a bit of a mess, and a child's bike had been left leaning against the wall outside. Still, he'd managed to light the barbecue, and that in itself he felt was something.

The last few weeks had been utterly manic, and he didn't think he'd ever known anything like it. He remembered vividly taking Harry home from the hospital, and entering their home, just the two of them. There had been a strange feeling of 'what now?' and for a moment, they'd both just stood there, looking at each other. Harry's stomach rumbling had broken the silence, and Simon had laughed, instantly wrapping Harry up on the sofa to rest whilst he made dinner for them both.

The next week, he'd gone to the Dursleys, and as promised, they'd had the adoption papers drawn up. All he'd had to do was to read and to sign, and he'd left, feeling lighter than he had done in weeks, even though he had to pass the cupboard under the stairs as he left. He took more than a little delight in stepping on as many plants as he could on the way out.

Then there had been the trial. Both he and Harry had been called into court to testify against Vernon Dursley for his crimes committed against Harry. What ever protection the mysterious A. Dumbledore had offered had obviously fallen away, and Vernon had looked uncharacteristically small standing in a courtroom. Five years, but probably less if he behaved, Simon knew. It was enough though. Enough to make sure that Harry wouldn't have to see Vernon again.

He supposed that it was for the best that this had happened at the very beginning of the summer holidays. When they both returned to school in September, Harry would be in someone else's class, and he would not be teaching his own child. It also meant that they had six weeks to get used to each other before the mess of school joined their lives. It had been fun spending his days with Harry, making playdough and playing with lego, taking him on a desperately needed clothes shopping venture, or entertaining whichever well-wishers came to the door.

As soon as he'd become used to Harry's presence in the house, it had all come to a swift end, with Petunia demanding the boy's presence in their house for the two weeks they'd agreed. Harry had been pale and shaking when he left, even knowing that Uncle Vernon couldn't possibly have been there. He'd ended up visiting Mrs Figg every day, and he'd been fed and given Dudley's spare bedroom. They'd barely said a word to him, and when he threw himself back into Simon's arms at the end of two weeks, unharmed, both had felt a profound sense of relief.

It had not all been smooth sailing though. Simon had nearly lost his temper when he awoke one morning to find Harry gone. The child returned a couple of hours later, shrugging slightly and explaining that he'd 'just been in to town'. The ensuing conversation lasted a good couple of hours as well, while Simon explained that he didn't want Harry going anywhere without him, and he wasn't to leave his sight when they did leave the house.

He wasn't entirely sure that Harry understood his reasoning, but he supposed that as time went on, he would come to understand as he grew up, and grew accustomed to having a parent who cared for him.

From inside the house, he heard the doorbell go, and he ran inside to get it. "Harry, your guests are arriving," he called up the stairs.

He didn't even get to the front door before Jack walked straight through it. "I don't know why you even bother ringing the bell, to be honest with you," Simon sighed.

Light footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and a moment later, Harry appeared. "Hey, Mr Jack!" he said brightly.

"Happy Birthday!" Jack cried even more exuberantly, and picked the child up, and spun him around before letting him down again. He reached back outside the door and picked up the large parcel sitting on the floor behind him. "And here's your gift!"

"A gift, for me?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. He looked up to Simon for guidance, and he nodded at him encouragingly.

"I'm sure you'll be getting plenty of them today," Jack assured him. "Now let's go sit down and open it before anyone else arrives."

Jack had been right, and every guest who turned up on their door that day brought a present for Harry. Many of them were toys, since most people who knew him were aware of his previous deficiency of them, and more of them were books, which Harry was always thrilled to receive. Clothes and sweets also found their way onto the pile, and Harry was awed that all this was because of him.

It was towards the end of the afternoon, when the barbecue had cooled to embers, and the children had begun to drift asleep in the arms of their parents. Simon watched Harry running around the grass with one of Mrs Stone's children, Michael, and two of his other students Andrew and Laura, of whom he approved. It warmed him to see him happily making friends and having fun, as he ought to have been doing all along.

A touch on his arm alerted him that he was not alone, and he turned to see Margaret smiling at the same scene that he observed.

"He looks so happy now, so different to the way he has done for so long," she said quietly. "I can't thank you enough for succeeding where I failed. For seeing his life, and finding a way around it. You've saved his life, Simon, and you will always have my eternal gratitude."

As women around him had been doing lately, she wrapped her arms around him, and then promptly burst into tears.

"All right, Maggie, come here," Dennis said, appearing from nowhere to rescue him. He easily took Margaret from his arms, and onto his. He mouthed a 'well done', and wandered away.

"I must admit, I wondered about your choice for the school when I first met you in September," Stephen said casually. A beer in one hand, and a casual smile on his face. "The class was a difficult one – a couple of special needs, some with serious behavioural issues, a strange family affair involving a boy being regularly hurt by his own cousin. You were a greenhorn, fresh from the teaching course, and Ruth had clearly lost her mind. I never quite understood what she saw in you then."

He took a swig from the bottle, and his smile warmed again. "Then you discover that the rest of the family's hurting him, too, and that no matter what you do, social services have no idea who he is. A mad, violent uncle, and a calculating aunt, and you've got yourself the bones of a ludicrous novel. You rise to the challenge, of course, and exceed everyone's expectations, saving the boy in the most unorthodox way I could imagine, with my limited imagination, and here, one year on, Harry's happy in his home, surrounded by friends. I can't say how impressed with you I am. I can only regret not being as good a teacher as you when I was just starting out."

He staggered slightly, and fell into a chair behind him. Simon remembered thinking almost a year ago, that if he could be as good a teacher as Stephen in ten years time, then he'd be more than happy with himself. In a rare moment of unnecessary sentiment, he told Stephen exactly that, and pressed a hand to his shoulder as he slipped into the crowd.

A few hours later once more, and Stephen had long since gone home, put into a taxi by the ever practical Jackie, and Ruth the headmistress had obligingly given the driver the fare upfront. Almost all the guests had left, including most of his family, though his mother had given Harry an extra-long hug before leaving, and had slipped him another little present which he had yet to unwrap. Jack had passed out on the sofa some time ago, and Simon promised himself not to let his brother drink himself into a stupor in front of such young children again.

"A nice end to a very long day, I imagine," Florence said from behind him. They stood for a moment looking over the garden and the fields beyond at the sunset. "Was it worth it? All the trouble you've been through?"

He reached up to run a hand through his hair, but she stopped him, and brought his arm back to his side. "I can't stop thinking sometimes, about how he'd end up living the rest of his childhood if I hadn't been here, and yet, what if I was wrong? What if I should have just given the evidence to the police and let them make of it what they will, and let Harry go to someone who is truly able to take care of him… I've got no experience with children! What if I mess this all up?"

He turned to her then, and the sheer heartbreak in his expression made her smile. "You're effectively a new parent, and you don't think that every new father goes through the same panic? Everyone worries that they're going to mess everything up, but you've proven beyond a doubt that you're more than fit for this. You risked everything to save Harry, and now he's curled up next to your drunken brother…" she smirked at her twin and her adopted nephew.

"Seeing you with Harry has made me certain that I'm doing the right thing," she added quietly, putting her had to her stomach. It had grown larger since he'd last seen her, Simon was sure. "And I'm so glad to have a big brother who's going through the same thing as me." She smiled again. "Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed yourself today, because I know Harry has. You're both going to have to come to my housewarming once I get settled."

"Housewarming?" Simon asked, confused.

"Well, seeing how happy you and Jack are living here, especially now you've got a son of your own, made me rethink my life a little…"

"You've bought a house here." He stated.

She grinned. "Just a few streets away, I'll be around every day!"

Simon pretended to groan in annoyance. "That's a lot more permanent than the place you were renting before. And what did Mum and Dad have to say about that?"

"They were practically beaming," she laughed, and Simon looked thoroughly bemused. "They've been saying how proud they are of you, and really they won't shut up about it. How their eldest son has made it through adversity and has taken in a poor orphan boy on his teachers' wage in the suburbs. They're talking about cutting Jack off to give him a bit of perspective, I thought he was going to cry!"

Simon laughed then, and put his arms around his sister.

"After Caroline and everything that came with that, I didn't think we'd ever see you happy again," she said, quite seriously. "But I'm so happy for you that you've found a new family, and a new life for yourself. All I ever wanted was for you to smile again."

They fell silent for a few minutes then, and watched the sky darken.

"I do go on, don't I?" she said quietly. "I'd better get back, or Dad'll be wondering where I am. I'll come and visit you both again before I go back to Oxford to move my things. Good bye, Simon." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and walked gracefully to the taxi that was waiting for her in the street.

Simon stayed on the porch for a long moment, before coming back inside and closing the door against the cold. Harry was, as Flo had said, curled up against Jack on the sofa, and had burrowed under one of his cardigans for warmth.

"Come on, Harry, time for bed," he said quietly, scooping the child up and into his arms.

"Has everyone gone home now?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Yep, just us and Jack left now, and it's well past your bedtime," Simon said, as he ascended the stairs.

"Will you read me a bedtime story?" Harry asked cautiously, still expecting to be refused after these last few weeks.

"Of course," Simon told him.

After Harry had brushed his teeth and been washed and changed into pyjamas, he climbed into the little bed in the second bedroom. Simon thought idly that he should redecorate as Harry wished, and then it would truly be his very own room.

"Have you had a good birthday?" Simon asked quietly.

The smile he received dazzled him, and warmed him through. "It's been the best day I've ever had," Harry told him quietly, leaning out of bed to wrap his arms around his neck, and planting a kiss on his cheek. Simon held Harry against him for a long moment, just enjoying the feeling of having his child in his arms. He pressed a kiss to his unruly hair, and smiled down at his son. He didn't think he'd ever been so happy in his life.


End file.
